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 (25 page)
At Antwerp, James Belfountain joined with the rest of Saint-Germain’s escort which now numbered five; they traveled light, with only two pack-horses for their goods, and a single remount for each man in their remuda. Four leagues outside Antwerp, they turned south along the merchants’ road to Cologne, through the sodden summer heat, and the persistent dust-cloud that marked their progress. On the road there had been delays—two the result of over-turned wagons, one caused by villagers throwing rocks at all who approached their gates, one caused by a fire in a field and grove of elms and oaks—putting them almost half a day behind what they had planned.
“Do we press on?” Belfountain asked as they approached the outskirts of Cologne. “It is three hours until sundown.”
“The horses are weary,” said Saint-Germain. “And the evening is not going to be much cooler than the day.”
“Then we remount shortly and pony them in the remuda, all no faster than a trot,” said Belfountain, patting the sweaty neck of his blood-bay. “We won’t make up all the time we’ve lost, but we won’t be even farther behind.” He wiped his face with the hem of his light fustian summer cloak, worn more to keep off the dust than to provide unwanted warmth; he left a gritty smear across his forehead. “I would advise that we go on, if you want to reach Venezia within ten or eleven days.”
Ruthger shaded his eyes and studied the clouds forming to the southwest. “We may yet have a thunderstorm before midnight.”
“That we may,” Saint-Germain agreed. “I should think we would not want to be in the open if a storm begins.”
“There is the rain itself, and the risk of fire,” Ruthger said. “Lightning can set a wood ablaze in an instant.”
“It can also strike a house, or an inn, or a barn,” Belfountain said. “If there is a thunderstorm, everywhere is dangerous.”
Jacques Oralle, a seasoned soldier at twenty-two who was from Bensancon, ahead on their way south, said, “Even if it rains, I don’t think we’ll get caught in the mud, not if we keep to the main road.”
“Why not cut across the open country?” Timothy Mercer, a young English soldier, interjected. “We could save time, and spare ourselves unpleasantness.”
Oralle held up his hand. “No; we would lose time, not save it, at least not in this region. Without the merchants’ roads and market roads, the fens would be unpassable, but the merchants’ roads, in particular, are well-drained, and among the last to mire. The market roads, a little less so, but this summer has not proven to be too wet in spite of all the storms.”
The wind sprang up suddenly, shifting around to the southeast, and as it whipped past the small group of mounted men, it bore to them the cloying, metallic odor of decaying flesh; as fast as it had shifted, the wind moved again back to the west. Belfountain and Saint-Germain exchanged quick glances, and Saint-Germain said, “All may not be well in Cologne.”
“Not with the charnel house on the wind; I know that much,” said Maddox Yeoville, who had only recently joined Belfountain’s company, and had come—amid ambiguous reports—from the household cavalry of Henry VIII.
“If it is fever, then it will spread, and we must get beyond the miasma or we, too, will sicken,” said Belfountain.
“If it is the charnel house, and not the gibbet,” said Saint-Germain, aware from the smell that no disease had killed the bodies that carried that stench. “In either case, it may be easier to enter Cologne than to leave.”
“It is often better not to do than to have to undo,” Ruthger pointed out.
“It is probably best if we don’t enter the city, not while there are secondary market roads we may travel. We have had to detour twice already; another such will not disaccommodate us, although it may delay us by another day.” Belfountain looked at Saint-Germain, his brow rising inquiringly. “If we create delays, our pay can be held back, so moving on is to our benefit, isn’t it, Grav?” he reminded them all. He leaned forward to ease his back a little, his brow touching the crest of his blood-bay’s neck. “I think we could go along as far as Beau Roison before nightfall. We should reach there in two hours if there are no problems; that will allow us an opportunity to rest the horses and have our dinner before everything is soaked. And departing in the morning could be swifter than it would be from Cologne.”
“If the rain is heavy, it could slow us tomorrow,” Ruthger observed, noticing as he did that Saint-Germain was listening intently. He regarded Saint-Germain carefully. “What is it you hear, my master?”
“Bells, and not ringing changes, but sounding the alarum,” said Saint-Germain, his tone slightly distant, his attention on the city ahead. “I think it would be best if we use the market road, not the merchants’ roads, and keep on. When we near Beau Roison, then we can consider what to do.”
Belfountain raised his hand to signal his men. “Then we will move on, away from the gates and on to the south market road. We’ll leave the merchants’ roads to larger trains than ours.”
“And to the Spanish patrols; they keep to the merchants’ roads, and pay not a copper for their doing so,” said Mercer, made uneasy by his own remark.
“Most of the Hapsburg lands here are under the control of the Austrian branch of the family, and much less inclined to worry about heresy than the Spanish,” said Saint-Germain. “We will shortly be out of reach of Spain and across the frontiers of Charles’ Lorraine territories.”
“A Hapsburg is a Hapsburg, and they are all treacherous,” said Yeoville.
Saint-Germain glanced over at the young man. “While I may agree with you in many regards, I think Charles is a capable administrator, although his brother appears to like the minutiae of government more than Charles does.”
“They all like killing honest Protestants,” said Yeoville, and looked away, his face set, his manner guarded.
“Not all: another thing in Charles’ favor: he dislikes having to kill his subjects over unanswerable questions,” Saint-Germain remarked. “Given the Holy Roman Empire’s present fracturing, Charles’ policies have maintained it better than many another has.” He remembered his first glimpse, not quite six hundred years before, of Otto the Great, who had not been content with Karl-lo-Magne’s old title of Emperor of the Franks and Longobards and Imperial Governor of all the Romans in the West but had embraced the extended distinction of Holy Roman Emperor, the title the Frankish nobility had used unofficially since Haganrich the Fowler ruled; he dreaded what that tenth-century warlord would have done in the circumstances now confronting Charles V. He tried to shut out the recollection of cities sacked and put to the torch, of peasants rounded up to serve as slaves in the Emperor’s household, of broken bodies cast into common graves, of children spitted on swords. “At least,” he murmured in the tongue of Saxony six hundred years ago, “we have not come to that.”
“Grav?” Belfountain asked.
Realizing something of his recollections must have shown in his face, he was able to summon up a half-smile. “I ask your pardon,” he said quietly. “I was lost in thought—how politics and religion make for dangerous partners, as we see all around us.”
“All the more reason for you to return to Venezia,” said Mercer, nodding as if he had made an original point.
“Oh?” Ruthger interjected before Saint-Germain could speak. “You assume politics and religion are separate in Venezia?”
“No,” said Mercer, affronted. “But it isn’t as confusing as what is happening in the north, is it?”
“Not in the way that such matters are in upheaval, certainly; Venezia has a different style in dealing with dissidents,” said Ruthger.
“That is exactly why Venezia will never have such disarray as they have in the Netherlands and the German States,” Giulio delle Fonde said, speaking up for the first time; he was in charge of the pack-horses and the remuda, a position he found useful for staying out of any discussion of politics, claiming that the horses demanded all his attention.
“Or so we hope, and that is all we can do at present—hope, and that will change nothing but our own minds,” said Belfountain as he nudged his blood-bay to the position slightly ahead of Saint-Germain. “The market roads are toll-roads, Grav. You will have to pay to use them.”
“I have money in my glove,” Saint-Germain said as he started his gray gelding moving again. The brief respite had not been sufficient to restore the horses, so they began at a walk, giving both men and animals a little easier time of it.
“We will change horses just before going through the gate; most toll-houses have a shelter-stall for such purposes.” Oralle rose in the stirrups and looked back. “That group of men with their families and carts is still on the road, about half a league behind us now.”
“Poor devils,” said Belfountain. “To be uprooted from their homes and cast off on the world because they do not trust the Pope.”
“Who does trust the Pope? De’ Medici or not, Clemente is a pawn of the Spanish, or he would have to be a martyr,” said Oralle, ready to press on, and fretting at their slow pace. “For all of us, it will be ten copper Fredericks.”
Saint-Germain had only silver coins in his glove, but he knew what the men of his escort expected to hear. “Even secondary roads are becoming more expensive every day.”
“So they are,” said Belfountain, moving his open hand in a circle above his head to indicate to his men that they should follow him to the right at the next turn. “And with groups such as the one behind us using the roads, it is small wonder that the cost of them increases. In May I saw a much larger group of families from the Swiss Cantons bound for Calais, of all places. Their town—near Zurich—had come under Huldrych Zwingli’s influence, and they would not renounce their Catholic faith, so were cast out on the world, like Cain.”
“More’s the pity,” said Yeoville.
“If we avoid these groups, the armies patrolling the merchants’ roads will pay less attention to us, or they have in the past,” Belfountain declared. “It will not serve us to be detained by any of them.”
“Do you assume that they suppose you’re giving the wanderers protection?” Ruthger asked.
“That’s their excuse—whether they believe it, who can tell,” said Belfountain. “I’m surprised we have only come upon this one company. We will have to be careful if we encounter others.”
“Who will scout?” Saint-Germain asked. “Oralle?”
“He comes from this region, and should know the by-ways, if such knowledge is necessary,” said Belfountain, signaling to that young man to move ahead of them, adding in his English-accented French, “If anything seems amiss, inform us at once.”
“I will,” Oralle called back as he urged his spotted horse forward to a point about fifty yards ahead of the other six.
“These warm, close nights always seem hard to bear,” said Mercer. “The horses fret, and no one sleeps well.”
“True enough,” Belfountain agreed. “You don’t see many nights like this one back in England, as I remember.”
“No; not too many,” Mercer said, and gave his attention to the road ahead.
They traveled on through the fading afternoon, making no sound but the steady thud of their horses’ hooves. At the toll station, they changed mounts, taking their evening horses from the remuda-line and returning their day horses to it. In half an hour they were saddled again and ready to continue; Saint-Germain paid their toll and a bit more for the use of the shelter-stall, and they continued on at the jogtrot into the clinging warmth of the evening as the declining sun left a glistening wake leading into low-lying clouds on the western horizon. They passed broad fields where cowherds and shepherds were driving their charges back toward farmsteads that seemed little more than hummocks and berms in the deepening twilight.
“That’s Beau Roison,” Oralle called from a bend ahead on the road.
“Where?” Belfountain responded, his voice unexpectedly loud.
“Perhaps forty yards ahead; just beyond where the road dips.” Oralle had stopped on the road, waiting for the other six riders to catch up with him. “There.” He pointed to a cluster of about fifty buildings, the remnants of an old stone wall encircling thirty of these, a monument to the age of the place. Five streets twisted through the buildings, most connecting to market-squares or ancient gates in the old wall. Spires of three churches poked into the violet sky, rising over the thatched roofs of the other buildings. “They say the Romans of old founded the town, because there is an old ruined building that legend says was a bath.”
Saint-Germain realized he had been in this place during his travels with Gaius Julius Caesar during his conquest of Gaul; then this had been a rest-camp for wounded soldiers where he had spent time working with the wounded, and then recovering himself, in Aumtehoutep’s care: the bath had been the only permanent building in the settlement. “A charming legend,” he said.
“Legends won’t help us now,” Belfountain muttered, and spat to ward off the evil omen as an owl sailed over them on silent wings.
“Not many lights showing,” Mercer observed as he peered through the dusk, and pointed out a few windows with a shine of goldensnouted lamps in them.
“No,” said Belfountain thoughtfully, rousing himself to assess the surround so he might know best how to approach the town; he contemplated the road ahead, then turned to Saint-Germain. “Well, Grav, what do you think?”
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