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

  “Or a small village,” said Saint-Germain. “There are many of them in these mountains.”

  “Let us hope,” said Belfountain, “that this is nothing more than a local celebration, then, and the smoke is from a pig or a goat, and not from an excess perpetrated by highwaymen or mercenaries or clergy.” If he was aware of any irony in his remark, he gave no indication of it. “Our road does not lead eastward, so we need not concern ourselves with them. We will put it behind us in half a league.”

  “Let us hope,” Saint-Germain echoed, for he knew the smoke was from no goat or pig; something far more sinister was burning in that remote village, and he wanted to be away from it.

  “Claudell, Haskins!” Belfountain shouted to his scouts up ahead. “Hold a moment until we can see you. We want to take no chances here.”

  “You may want your men behind to close up, as well, closer to the remuda and your wagon,” Saint-Germain suggested.

  “A good notion,” Belfountain approved, and signaled to another of his men. “Have Wainsford and van Doost close up the distance behind. Tell them to keep careful watch: I don’t want anyone to be snagged from the rear.” The man touched his steel visor and swung his horse around; Belfountain watched him go, then gave his attention forward. “We must move a little more quickly. The rain will be upon us shortly.”

  “So it will,” said Saint-Germain, glad his driving-seat was filled with his native earth to protect against the enervation rain inevitably caused; much as he disliked being out in it, he hoped the rain would quench the fire to the east of them.

  “There is another steep part of the road ahead. Once we’re up that, the inn will not be far ahead.” Belfountain signaled his men to move on at a fast walk. “Don’t exhaust your horses,” he warned.

  The wagons creaked and groaned, their harnesses jingled and squeaked, the wheels trundled, the horses blew and their hooves thumped on the soft, leaf-strewn earth. Saint-Germain held his team to a steady pace, feeling the four liver-sorrels lean into their collars, their flaxen manes flying from the increasing gusts as the road turned upward again toward the top of the ridge. Their afternoon light diminished and the wind picked up more steadily, strumming the trees so they bent and purred like favored cats, the boom of the wind heralding the storm gathering to the west of them.

  Belfountain pulled his big, thick-necked Hungarian destrier up close to Saint-Germain’s wagon. “We’ll need to move a little faster once we’re past the slope. This climb is taking too long. The rain will be here before we reach the inn.”

  “So I think,” Saint-Germain agreed, not looking forward to enduring more running water.

  “We will have to be careful not to be mired in mud,” said Belfountain, voicing his apprehensions.

  “Yes, I know,” said Saint-Germain, then added, “Do you think it would be wise to send a rider ahead to the inn to secure rooms for us, and to bring aid if we take over-long to arrive?”

  “Not yet,” said Belfountain. “Once we crest the incline, I may do that, especially if the wind is stronger.”

  “As you wish,” said Saint-Germain, and sat forward on his driving-box, readying himself for the next acclivity.

  By the time they reached the top of the double-switchback the first stinging drops were slanting in on the wind. The horses, already tired, were growing fretful, and driving them in the thickening rain proved a demanding task. The road was soon slick with mud, and rather than go faster, they had to slow their progress. Belfountain dispatched one of his men to ride ahead to the Hawk and Hare, telling him to bring help if the rest of them had not arrived one hour after sunset.

  “How reliable is he?” Saint-Germain asked as the young mercenary went trotting off, his armor noisy enough to announce his passage for half a league around.

  “Haskins? He’s the best of the youngsters,” said Belfountain. “Comes from a long line of soldiers. His oldest brother is part of Essex’s company. If Haskins hadn’t four older brothers to require a place in the world, he would have ducal colors of his own. As it is, he must take employment where he can find it.”

  “Then I will assume there will be no reason to trouble myself on his account,” said Saint-Germain, lifting the hood of his cloak forward to provide more protection to his face.

  “Trouble yourself rather on ours,” said Belfountain, swinging his horse around and reaching for his sword as a group of peasants came rushing out of the trees, some holding axes, some grasping pitchforks. “To me!” he shouted to his men, and prepared to block the peasants’ advancement.

  Saint-Germain reached under his driving-seat and pulled out his treasured katana, given to him more than three centuries ago by Saito Masashige; he prepared to draw it from its scabbard as he stopped his team and secured the reins around the brake-handle, then rose to his feet, ready to fight.

  Belfountain moved a little ahead of the closed line of his men. “Halt! All of you!” he shouted, first in Venezian Italian, then in Alpine Austrian. “What do you want here?”

  This was answered by frantic, angry shouts and bellows.

  “Be quiet!” Belfountain shouted in Austrian and then in Venezian. “Choose one among you to speak, that we may understand you.”

  The men gathered together, and finally one angular fellow stepped forward. “Be you Catholics, Orthodox, Islamites, or Protestants? Which teaching do you follow, and what Crown do you support?” His dialect was an odd mix of Venezian and Austrian with a bit of Croatian included.

  “What manner of business is it of yours?” Belfountain asked brusquely.

  “We will make the demands here!” the angular fellow shouted, his voice high and stridulous.

  “Men! At the ready!” Belfountain barked in English, and his company drew their weapons and leveled them at the group of peasants, who huddled together, their improvised weapons seeming inadequate in the face of the soldiers. Belfountain spoke in the Austrian dialect. “You will not attempt to detain us. Our business is no concern of yours.”

  “Armed men are killing folk in this region, by order of Huldrych Zwingli, for the new Emperor favors the Pope, who crowned him! Everyone knows it!” the angular man shrieked, lifting his baling hooks high above his head, then lunged forward and dug the long hooks deep into the flank and rump of Claudell’s horse; the gelding screamed, kicked and bucked, nearly unseating his rider, and managing to clip the furious peasant on the side of the head with his hoof as his rear legs buckled and he sank heavily onto his on-side stifle. The man staggered back, keening in agony, blood welling from his cheek.

  The peasants began to mill together, horrified at what their companion had done; it was one thing to threaten armed men, and quite another to attack them in earnest. Two of them lifted their weapons pugnaciously, and took a step forward, all the while looking from their injured comrade to Belfountain’s men, three of whom were preparing to move in on them.

  “Hold!” Saint-Germain ordered; his voice, although not strained or loud, carried to every man.

  Belfountain glared at Saint-Germain, pointing to Claudell, who was dismounting as best he could without further injuring his gelding. “We’re going to lose a good horse, thanks to these fools! One of you men, bring a pistol and put him out of his misery!”

  Mondroit came from the front right flank, dismounted, and began to charge his pistol. Everyone had gone silent.

  “There is no sense in courting more losses,” said Saint-Germain as he slipped his katana back into its scabbard and climbed down from the wagon, going to the injured man as Mondroit prepared to shoot the gelding. “I want to see what happened to your face,” he said to the peasant, who had sunk to his knees, now whimpering with pain.

  “You will kill me,” the man accused, barely understandable.

  “No, I will not,” said Saint-Germain. “Believe this.” He stood beside the peasant, noticing that the man was beginning to shiver. “Ruthger, bring a blanket,” he called out.

  The peasants were muttering amongst themselves, casting i
nfuriated glances at the armed men and the black-clad man. One of them raised his woodsman’s axe and took a tentative step forward just as Mondroit fired a single ball into the middle of the gelding’s brain; the horse jerked, then collapsed.

  Belfountain’s men moved closer to the peasants, ready to attack, anxious for Belfountain’s signal to set upon the ill-armed rabble.

  The injured peasant wailed and fell onto his side; Saint-Germain knelt beside him.

  Going about Saint-Germain’s request as if nothing were amiss, Ruthger climbed down from the second wagon, a folded blanket of two-colored wool in his hands. He paid no attention to the soldiers or the peasants, but went directly to Saint-Germain. “Is there anything else you would like?”

  Saint-Germain had been studying the peasant, and realized that he was badly injured. “I think a carry-bed will be needed, and my medicament in the dark-blue glass vial.” He spoke in Imperial Latin, keeping his voice low. “We’ll need a second blanket, as well, or a canvass roll.”

  “Are you certain?” Ruthger’s somber face betrayed nothing of his concern. “He is conscious and not confused.”

  “That will not last,” said Saint-Germain with regretful certainty as he carefully draped the blanket around the man’s shoulders, and pulling it close around his hunched body. “He will soon begin to babble and to drift into a stupor. Once that happens, he is as good as dead.”

  Ruthger looked down at the peasant, who was shaking in earnest now. “Are you sure he cannot be cured? Surely you know something—”

  “I am,” said Saint-Germain. “His skull is cracked in at least two places. See how his face sags under the eye and the blood coming from his ear? He will not recover no matter what I do, so he might as well die as easily as possible. It’s syrup of poppies or agony.”

  “I’ll fetch another blanket, and the vial,” said Ruthger, and went off to do those things.

  Claudell and Mondroit were struggling to remove the tack from the dead horse, tugging at the saddle to pull the girth from under the body.

  Belfountain rode a little closer to Saint-Germain. “What about this fellow? Do we leave him? What do you think the others will do?”

  Saint-Germain shook his head. “I cannot say. But I know what we should do, to ease this bad situation: make a carrying-bed for this man, and help the others to ready him to travel.”

  “Why should we bother? We can push our way through,” said Belfountain.

  “Not without risk of further injuries,” said Saint-Germain, “and that could delay us still more.”

  Sighing through his teeth, Belfountain took a long moment to consider his response, then said, “Very well.” He raised his voice. “Help these men make a travel-bed. Their companion will need it. You! Cathcart! You take charge!”

  Cathcart muttered something pithy as he dismounted and handed his reins to Belfountain. His Venetian Italian was far from expert, and his accent was harshly English, but he made his intentions plain, and finally one of the peasants lowered his pitchfork and came forward. “Thank God,” Cathcart said in English, and then switched back to his version of the northern dialect. “We have a roll of canvass. If you can bring two poles, we can fashion a carry-bed for your fellow there.”

  One of the peasants hefted his long-handled hoe. “Will this do?” he offered, avoiding the condemning glance of two others among his companions. “We have an orchard-hook, too. It has a substantial, long handle.”

  Ruthger came back to Saint-Germain, a long roll of linen in one hand, and a small vial of dark-blue glass in the other; a second blanket was tucked under his arm. He held these out to him, the blanket providing support for the bandages and vial. “What more should I do, my master?”

  “Since you had the good sense to bring a bandage, you can help me to wrap his head so the broken bones won’t shift any more than they must; once the syrup has taken hold, we will bind his head,” said Saint-Germain, dropping down on one knee beside the stricken man. Doing his best to use the local speech, he said, “I have medicine for you; it will ease your pain and let you rest while your friends take you back to your home.”

  The man moaned and his eyes fluttered, and he wheezed more than he had before.

  “First I need to see your face,” Saint-Germain continued. “If you will lower your hands for me?”

  Behind the three of them, Cathcart had finally enlisted the aid of three of the peasants, and was now unrolling canvass and trying to explain how it was to be attached to the handles of hoes, hooks, and swineherd’s weighted staff.

  The peasant shuddered and lowered his hands a short way from his face, his fingers tense as talons. His color was ashen and a thin line of blood ran from his nose. He shuddered and his left hand spasmed.

  “You will have to swallow this,” said Saint-Germain, holding the unstoppered vial to his mouth and preparing to tip the liquid in.

  The carry-bed was almost finished, and the peasants began to talk among themselves as to who should be bearers, all the while watching the soldiers uneasily and making gestures of protection.

  Now a light spattering of rain pattered down, hardly more than a suggestion of damp, but both Belfountain and Saint-Germain looked up as Belfountain burst out, “Mary’s Tits! We’ll have mud for sure!”

  Saint-Germain continued to concentrate on the peasant, who was coughing with the effort to get some of the syrup down. “Steady, good fellow. Steady,” he encouraged as he managed to get the last half of the vial’s contents into him.

  “How much longer?” Cathcart asked Saint-Germain. “These men are getting restless.”

  “I cannot blame them for that,” said Saint-Germain, rather remotely; his attention was still fixed on the injured man. “We want to wrap his head, and then you may take him,” he said to the peasants in a fairly good version of their dialect.

  The rainfall grew a bit heavier and the wind-gusts returned, shoving at the mountain as if to move it. The peasants huddled together, resentment mixing with chagrin as they watched Saint-Germain deliberately secure the long strip of linen around the man’s head; by the time he was finished with his task, the peasant was barely conscious.

  Cathcart helped load the peasant onto the carry-bed, and stood back so that his companions could lift the carry-bed and head off toward their village, some of the men already worried about the storm.

  “What do you want to wager they don’t abandon him a league from here?” Belfountain said to Saint-Germain.

  “It will depend upon the weather,” said Saint-Germain.

  “And how bad his wound is,” added Belfountain, a note of curiosity in his observation.

  “It is a very bad wound,” said Saint-Germain, looking up as Ruthger approached holding a shining lanthorn. “Very good, old friend. We will need light very soon.”

  “So we will,” said Belfountain. He motioned to his men. “Get your lanthorns, all of you!”

  As his men hurried to do as he ordered, Saint-Germain climbed back onto the driving-box of his wagon and hung the lanthorn on its bracket at the edge of the driving-box so that the way ahead would be illuminated, for although the dark did not impede his vision, he knew that Belfountain and his men would be wary and perplexed if only they had to take the precaution to light the road ahead. Picking up the reins, he resigned himself to an hour of rain.

  Text of a letter from Joseph-Marie Derricot of Liege to Christofo Sen in Venice, written in Latin and carried by private courier; delivered fourteen days after it was dispatched.

  To the most esteemed Secretary to the Venezian Savii, the respectful greetings of Joseph-Marie Derricot, abiding at Liege in the Inn of the Shuttle and Loom, and, in accordance with your instructions, informing you of the arrival and departure of persons of interest to the Savii.

  You had informed me, some weeks since, that an eminent foreigner, known in Venezia as Franzicco Ragoczy, il Conte di Santo-Germano, might be expected to pass through this city, for such were his plans as filed with the Minor Consiglio. From your d
escription, he had hired armed escort and was bound for Antwerp, Amsterdam, and Bruges. I wish to report that last night there arrived from the south, a foreigner calling himself Ferenz Ragoczy, Grav Saint-Germain, who was accompanied by armed men, a manservant, and the priest and farrier of the soldiers. He wore a signet ring I have briefly seen: it is a disk with raised displayed wings, black on silver, which he presented to establish his identity when he first entered the city. This would be consistent with what you have said regarding this man; coupled with the similarities of name—which can be accounted for in terms of regional language—I am almost completely convinced that I have seen your man, and that he is truly bound for the Lowlands, as you supposed.

  This Grav Saint-Germain is presently at the Old Mill, an inn of good size, able to take in all his armed men, provide them food, bed, and drink for a fairly substantial amount, but not exorbitant, as is charged at the Starry Crown. He has paid for three nights there, and so I must suppose he will be here at least that amount of time.

  I was told that he had received a courier from Antwerp, apparently something about a house there, but I have no details to offer you. Suffice it to say that his presence in Liege is not a secret, nor is it intended to be, and that Saint-Germain has already offered bona fides to the leaders of the city and its Guilds. I am persuaded that he is engaged in nothing nefarious, that he is not planning to abscond with money or other treasure, and that he is planning to return to Venezia within the year, for the soldiers have said that they are engaged to escort him south-by-east come June, and that their leader, an Englishman named Belfountain, has already established the terms of their journey.

  I shall inform you of any developments not already set forth here, such as any detention here or deviation from the stated plans of this Grav. The state of the city is such that there is some risk that the present leaders may have more inquiry to make of the Grav, since he has shown proof that he owns presses in various places. Books can be hazardous in these precarious times.