Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Read online

  “Why is that?” di Santo-Germano asked.

  “They have been strutting, playing at fighting, and they threatened to bugger my youngest apprentice, on the third wagon. The only thing that stopped them was that their leader said you would not pay them if they did.” He looked toward the spire of the church when it poked over the inn. “But you weren’t here.”

  “Perhaps not when you first arrived, yet as you see, I am here now.” He spoke with quiet authority, hoping to ease the wagon-maker’s evident anxiety. “I trust they will not misbehave now.”

  “Truly,” said Albergo, patting his brow with the sleeve of his smock. “My apprentices are driving the other wagons you ordered.” He glanced over his shoulder as if to assure himself that the young men had not vanished. “Just as you stipulated. Three wagons, six teams.” His nervousness was communicating itself to the horses; they began to fret, tossing their heads and stamping.

  “And you had the teams from what breeder?” Di Santo-Germano looked at the first team, making note of their size and condition.

  “All from Maffeo da Castello Sassosso; I presented your authorization, and he brought the horses,” said Albergo. “They all are from his stable, none older than six, including the riding horses, at the rear of the fourth wagon. Your arrangements have been most carefully made.” He cleared his throat. “The sum of all this is sixty-eight ducats, including the wagons, the horses, and the delivery.”

  Di Santo-Germano realized that the price was high, and he suspected that Albergo was adding to the price to cover his morning trials, but he opened his purse and handed over the money without cavil. “If you will move the wagons to the end of the dock there, so they may be more handily loaded?”

  “Of course. As you say.” He nodded repeatedly. “We’ll attend to it at once.” Swinging around on the driving-seat, he called out, “Decio! Timoteo! Fiober! Move up to the docks!”

  The horses responded to the tap of the reins as if pleased to be active again. They trundled off toward the docks, their new tack creaking as much as the wagons clattered. The extra riding horses ponied behind the third and fourth wagons along with the two spare teams.

  “Captain Belfountain,” said di Santo-Germano, turning back toward the Englishman.

  “Yes, Count,” said Belfountain.

  “How soon will your men be ready?” He looked toward the church, hearing the Credo chanted within.

  “They could be ready in half an hour,” said Belfountain.

  “Does that include saddled and mounted?” di Santo-Germano asked, aware of the extent of preparations the soldiers still had to make.

  “All right: an hour.” Belfountain frowned at his hand as if he had never seen the knot of scar tissue at the base of his thumb.

  “Very good,” said di Santo-Germano. “An hour then, and we may depart.”

  “I should think so.” Belfountain shrugged. “I’d best go warn them.” He took a few steps, then stopped. “We have men to drive our wagons, but what of yours?”

  Di Santo-Germano shaded his eyes against the brilliant sunlight. “I work with a paper dealer named Ulrico Baradin; he has agreed to send two of his best drayers to me.”

  “And where are they?” Belfountain asked suspiciously.

  “They will be here shortly,” said di Santo-Germano, hoping he was right; Baradin had promised him his most reliable men, and had accepted payment for their services. “They were told to meet us at Santa Maria del Mare.” He glanced toward the church. “They may be at Mass.”

  “They may. With or without them, when the hour is up, we will go,” said Belfountain, and strolled back toward the tavern, whistling as he went.

  A short while later Milano came up to di Santo-Germano, saying, “Your cases are all off the barges, Conte.”

  “Thank you, Milano,” said di Santo-Germano, handing him half a dozen coins. “For your men and for you.”

  “You are always generous, Signor’ Conte.” He slipped the coins into a pocket inside his canvas doublet. “You will inform me when to expect your return.”

  “Of course.” Di Santo-Germano looked away from the water. “A year goes very quickly.”

  Milano hitched his shoulders in noncommitment, saying only, “So long as we have boats and barges empty here, I’m going to see what we can carry back to Venezia; we’ll pick up a few more coins doing that.” He ducked his head. “God give you a safe journey, Conte. May no enemy, or plague, or misfortune visit you in your travels.”

  “And to you, Milano,” said di Santo-Germano as he noticed Ruggier approaching him, a sheaf of papers in one hand and a ruler in the other; with a small sigh of relief and regret, di Santo-Germano put Venezia behind him and went to attend to the final lading of wagons.

  Text of a letter from Leoncio Sen to Padre Egidio Duradante, delivered by Christofo Sen’s page the evening of the day it was written.

  To the most revered Papal Courier, Padre Egidio Duradante, presently at the Casetta Leatrice, the greetings of Leoncio Sen, nephew to Christofo Sen, and citizen of the Serenissima:

  I write to inform you that, lamentably, I must ask you to be patient for another day; like yours, my fortunes are ebbing at present. I have yet to collect the ninety-six ducats I have won from Gennaro Emerenzio, and until I do, I am unable to pay you the fifty I owe you. I do realize this is a considerable sum, and it is pressing the limits of friendship to disappoint you in this way, but I fear I must do so. Emerenzio has assured me that he can have the money he owes me in my hands by this time tomorrow. As soon as I have it, I will do myself the honor of waiting upon you at Casetta Leatrice, and I will discharge the debt in full.

  I know this is a debt of honor, and that it must be paid. You need not doubt me, for I have always paid my obligations in full, have I not? And Emerenzio is not some reckless sailor, bent on carousing while he is ashore, and knowing he can escape to sea if he overextends himself. No. Emerenzio is a man-of-business for several merchants in this city, with a reputation for fair-dealing and responsible actions. Therefore I am much more confident in asking you for this slight extension, since with such connections as he has, Emerenzio is unlikely to be unable to put his hands on sufficient funds to compensate his debtors in full.

  Of course I will be delighted to join you this evening for the private entertainment you mentioned. I know that Casetta Leatrice is known for the masques and theatricals produced there. As I have never before been present at such a performance, I will look forward to this most keenly.

  With sincere devotion,

  Leoncio Sen

  By my own hand at Ca’Sen on the 11thday of September, 1530 Anno Domini

  PART II

  ERNESTE VAN AMSTELJAXTER

  Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens, en route from the Papal States to Orleans in France, to Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, in care of Andre Pesselent, printer, in Bruges; written in Imperial Latin, carried by private courier and delivered nine days after it was dispatched.

  To my constant friend, Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus, currently Grav Saint-Germain, Conte di San-Germano, and whatever other names you may be using at the moment, the greetings of Atta Olivia Clemens, Roman widow, currently traveling into France, and for that reason, this letter must be brief, for I find writing in a moving vehicle, a most trying exercise, and for that reason I ask you to excuse any infelicities of style or execution. When we stop this evening, I will engage a courier to carry this to you, in care of your printer in Bruges, and hope you will have it in good time.

  Yes, in spite of my earlier intentions, I have realized that it is prudent for me to be away from the Papal States just now, what with Charles and Clemente still locked in conflict, so I am returning to my horse farm near Orleans, in the hope that I may avoid some of the less pleasant developments in the current upheaval among the Christians, who cannot decide how best to deal with their faith, and are therefore killing one another over their doubts. Magna Mater! how I miss the days of my breathing life, when such con
cerns weighed little on the people of Roma. No one bothered then about what others believed so long as it was no imposition upon anyone.

  I am sorry to say that my companion, Dionigi Eso, has been taken in charge by the Church to be examined for possible heresy. Something he wrote in one of his scholarly works has drawn the criticism of a Dominican, who read it and decided it was subversive, although I cannot see how his explication on the possible improvements in accuracy in navigation could be heretical. Sadly, at present I have only one real ally in the Papal Court, and I am wary about seeking his support at this time, for he, himself, is under scrutiny. On the advice of Cardinal della Rovere, I have arranged to place my estate in the care of my manager, and he has promised to send me regular reports about Sanza Pari, which should be enough to alert me if any mishap requires my presence and attention. He has also pledged to learn as much as he can about Dionigi Eso’s fate. I am afraid things will not go well for him.

  I apologize for the blot in the previous line; this nib is giving out, and the coach is rocking heavily.

  Niklos Aulirios is remaining at Nepete until I send for him. He will set up the care of your Roman estate as well as mine, and he will prepare a full report for you before he leaves Roma to come into France. I am certain that Niklos will be most careful in his arrangements—he has always been so in the past. I have allocated funds for him to use, and I have drawn on the monies you left with me so that Villa Ragoczy may be kept properly, as you would wish.

  I do not yet know how long I will stay in France, but you may be sure that I will inform you when I have made up my mind on that point. If the Spanish continue to war on all Protestants, then I may seek another part of the world entirely. You know how to direct your messenger to find me at my horse farm, as I know how to reach you through your printer. I ask you to keep me informed of your travels. I would prefer to know where you are rather than send four letters toward the cardinal points of the compass in the hope that you may receive one. With that in mind, I bid you a safe and rapid journey north, and a swift resolution to the problems that have beset you.

  With my continual love,

  Olivia

  By my own hand en route to France, on this, the 21stday of September, 1530

  1

  “I think rain is coming,” James Belfountain said to Grav Saint-Germain as they pulled to the side of the road that led up into the mountains, allowing the horses to rest before beginning the next leg of this days journey. “The sky has the look of it. God’s Teeth! to have rain at the most difficult stage of the journey.”

  “May steep roads be the worst we encounter,” said Saint-Germain from his place on the box of the lead wagon.

  “You will say otherwise if we must climb in mud,” Belfountain warned. “I’d rather brave outlaws than mud.”

  Saint-Germain looked up, his hand raised to shade his eyes. “I doubt the rain will come before sunset,” he remarked. “But I agree that there will be rain.” He settled back on the driving-seat. “What lies ahead on this road?”

  “Two more long climbs. There is a stretch of forest, a second ascent, and then a high meadow,” said Belfountain. “The last rise is more than ten leagues ahead. The men will have to travel light for the rest of the day, I fear: only grieves and cuirasses. Nothing on the horses above tack—they’ll tire and overheat if they have to carry much more than a rider.”

  “A sensible precaution,” Saint-Germain approved.

  “But we’re in no condition to fight, if we’re set upon,” said Belfountain, his frown revealing his worry.

  “Best to keep all the men on alert, then. The forest is more risky than the meadow, I would think,” Saint-Germain remarked mildly.

  “True enough,” said Belfountain. “And this climb has already taken a toll on the horses. I must send a rider back to the remuda, in case one of the men needs a fresh horse for the climb, and be sure our wagon’s team is still sound.” He stretched his arms and rubbed at his face as if to remove the dust that had accumulated there.

  “If you would like, you can move your priest into my second wagon; then you can put all your spare weapons into it, and keep them dry,” Saint-Germain offered, and before Belfountain answered, went on, “Your wagon is fairly crowded with two men in it along with your food and equipment.” He patted the arm of his black, paddedsilk doublet, noticing how much dust had accumulated in the fabric. His knee-length pantaloons were smirched, and his high boots were coated in it. He wore only a signet ring, and it was concealed by gloves; he had learned long ago not to display his jewelry while traveling, knowing how great a temptation jewels could be.

  “Won’t your manservant mind?” Belfountain asked.

  “No. He might enjoy the company, as I suspect your priest would, too,” Saint-Germain answered, knowing Ruthger would once again prevent the priest from looking through the books they were carrying north, some of which the priest would find objectionable.

  “Good of you, Count. I’ll let him know.” He whistled through his teeth and one of the flanking riders came over to him; after listening to a number of sotto voce instructions, the rider headed to the rear of the company. “We will reach an inn, about four leagues from here. It would be sensible to stop there for the night; the inn has a pasture and a spring. The horses could rest before we reach the last long climb.” Belfountain indicated the spread of trees farther up the slope. “Now that we are entering Hapsburg territory, you will need to be more alert. There are brigands in the wood, and Protestants in the towns, and here we are more subject to local rules than would be the case in Venezian territory.”

  “A difficult combination, brigands and Protestants,” Saint-Germain agreed. “I would prefer not to have to fight off either robbers or zealots. You are twenty armed men, but all of you could not hold off an outraged rabble, or a band of thieves.” He had done both many times before and had no wish to engage in such conflicts again.

  “It is prudent to avoid fights on the road, in any case,” said Belfountain. “You must have learned this, traveling as you do.”

  “As I do,” Saint-Germain agreed.

  “About our lodging,” Belfountain resumed. “Do you mind seeking out the inn I mentioned?”

  “If you are satisfied that it is reasonably safe and has room for us all, then why should I protest.” Saint-Germain removed his gloves and rubbed his hands together, bending his tired fingers before donning the gloves again. “I trust we will not be charged double or triple because of our numbers, or that your men will not be required to hunt their own supper.”

  “No, you will get fair value. I know the innkeeper and have patronized his inn before. The beds are lumpy and the food is plain, but the place is safe, there are chambers enough for this company, and the innkeeper knows how to hold his tongue.” Belfountain laughed curtly. “His extra charges are not too outrageous, and he does not allow any whores but his own to service the travelers, so not many men are robbed.”

  “I am pleased to hear it,” said Saint-Germain ironically, resting his elbows on his knees to ease the strain on his arms.

  “Then we will go there.” Belfountain rose in his stirrups and swung his sword to get his men moving again. “To the Hawk and Hare.”

  A few of his men shouted their approval of this plan, and urged their horses into a stretchy walk so that they would make the most speed possible without out-distancing the wagons.

  “How long will it take to reach this inn?”

  “Four leagues, most of it uphill? Three hours, I would guess. Plenty of time before nightfall,” said Belfountain, pushing the truth a little. He paused. “I wouldn’t want to make camp in the open in such a night as this one will be.”

  “Well enough,” said Saint-Germain, deciding that he would have to inspect the wagons, particularly the wheels, in case the long climb had loosened one, or damaged a spoke or a rim.

  For the next hour they kept steadily on, stopping once to let the horses drink from a bouncing stream that cavorted among the rocks o
n its way down into the narrow valley below, and once to pick the last of the sweet, dark berries growing wild at the edge of the woods. Once inside the forest and under the trees, Belfountain arranged his men in a more protective order, setting nine of them in flanking positions, putting two of them ahead as scouts, six around the horses of the remuda, and two at the rear to guard against sneak attacks; Belfountain’s farrier drove their wagon with the remuda ponying after, somewhat behind Saint-Germain’s three. They covered the next two leagues in as much silence as they could maintain so that they might hear anyone approaching them; then they caught sight of smoke rising through distant trees, a sullen black smudge against the wisps of clouds.

  “Fire!” the soldier named Bartholomew shouted, pointing at the smudge above the green in obvious dismay.

  Belfountain ordered his men to hold. “The smoke is dark; more than wood and pitch are burning,” he said as he scrutinized it. “And it isn’t spreading.”

  “It smells of burning flesh,” said Saint-Germain quietly.

  “Are you sure?” Belfountain rounded on him, his hard face more imposing than usual, his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  “It is not easily forgotten, that smell,” said Saint-Germain, no flicker of emotion in his eyes though he had a stab of recollection of Roma, thirteen hundred years ago, when the burning flesh was his own, and thirty years ago in Fiorenze, when Estasia had given herself up to the flames.

  “A farm, then? A barn going up?” Belfountain ventured as his men started to fret. “Or—”