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

  Be certain that your ducats will be put to good use,

  And that I remain

  Your most humble servant to command,

  Joseph-Marie Darricot

  At Liege, by my own hand, on this, the 8thday of October, 1530 Anno Domini

  2

  Bruges was blustery, with sharp winds off the North Sea cutting along the streets and shrieking down chimneys, sapping the last of autumn’s warmth and replacing it with the promise of an early winter. Occasional patches of blue shone through the racing clouds, lending an evanescent cheer to the waning day.

  Coming through the door on a shove of the northwesterly wind, Ruthger nodded to Jaquet Saint Philemon, who had hurried to answer the knock on the door, saying, “I’d wish you good afternoon, Saint Philemon, but it certainly isn’t, if the weather is any test of the matter.” He swung his knee-length, fur-trimmed, mulberry-colored chamarre off his shoulders, revealing a short, old-fashioned huque in double-woven English wool of russet-brown over knee-length pin-tucked barrel-hose in dull satin of raw ocher; his leggings were dark-gold and his high-topped shoes were made of Cordovan leather. He handed the chamarre to the steward, going on, “Maarten Gerben will be here within the hour to see my master. I trust I may find him in his study?”

  “Yes,” said Saint Philemon, giving his cuff-bands a fussy twist. “He left his apartment about two hours ago, and went to his study as soon as he had been given the cards left for him.”

  “Thank you.” Ruthger started toward the stairs to the second floor, then stopped. “The tailor is coming around later today, shortly before sunset, delivering two new suits of clothes—one for my master and one for me, and taking measurements for others.”

  Saint Philemon had a short, fierce, inner debate, then remarked, “That will be of benefit; aside from your chamarre, your garments are not in the current mode, except for your Venezian clothing, and such is not appropriate here. You will be glad of what the tailor brings you.”

  Ruthger came close to laughing. “Just so.”

  “You will want to be notified when he arrives, I would suppose,” said Saint Philemon, setting the door-latch with care; it would not do to have the wind blow it open.

  “Yes, and when Gerben arrives,” said Ruthger.

  “I’ll attend to it,” said Saint Philemon, going to fetch a footman to keep watch on the door.

  Ruthger climbed the stairs to the second floor; they were not so steep as the stairs in the house on Campo San Luca, but they made up for this in their narrowness. As Ruthger continued upward, he decided that another oil-lamp in the stairwell would relieve its constant gloom, and determined to instruct Saint Philemon to secure one to the wall at the first small square step that served as a landing. At the top of the second flight, Ruthger took the corridor leading southeast and tapped on the double doors at its end.

  “Come in, old friend,” called the voice from inside.

  Ruthger turned the latch and stepped through the double doors: Saint-Germain’s study was the largest room in the house, set at the back of the building, over the kitchens. There were two trestle-tables, a book-stand, two tall stools, and three closed cabinets, along with two chairs, and an upholstered bench facing the hearth where this afternoon a small fire burned. Saint-Germain himself was perched on one of the stools at the larger of the two tables, a small beam-scale suspended from his hand, the greatest portion of his attention fixed on the two objects he was weighing, one a brass spool, the other a haphazard knob of gold. He wore an English doublet in black-silk twill, piped in silver, with a narrow ruff of exquisite point-lace. His barrel-hose were a bit shorter than Ruthger’s, made of polished satin, and leggings of black silk; although he was a decade out of the current fashion, he had lost none of his elegance. “Well enough for a first effort,” he said as much to himself as to Ruthger as he tossed the gold into the air and caught it. “The athanor will need some minor repairs.”

  Ruthger waited until Saint-Germain set the scale down, then said, “Gerben is coming today. I persuaded him that he would do better, speaking with you directly, than continuing this endless exchange of messages. There is going to be confusion or an interception if you continue as you have.”

  “Excellent,” Saint-Germain approved. “I will be glad to receive him at last.”

  “He asked me to warn you that he is being watched,” Ruthger added.

  “As are most printers in Bruges,” Saint-Germain observed, taking care to speak the local dialect in case any of his household might be listening.

  “That they are,” said Ruthger. “But that does not mean we should be unmindful of it.”

  Saint-Germain swung around on the stool to face Ruthger. “You have the right of it, of course. We do not want to add … ah … fuel to the fire.” His sardonic witticism held a grim reminder of the printers and book-makers whose businesses had been burned to the ground during the last two years by various outraged mobs rampaging through the city.

  “By no means,” said Ruthger with a trace of acerbic amusement on his features.

  “Is Gerben concerned for his bindery?” Saint-Germain asked. “Or is it the press itself that he worries for?”

  “What printer in the Low Countries would not be concerned for both?” Ruthger countered, and went on in Venezian Italian, “He did his utmost to present the appearance of confidence and composure, but his eyes flickered often and he jumped at sudden sounds. His clothes are loose on his frame, so I must suppose he has recently lost weight, yet he doesn’t appear to be ill, only troubled.”

  “I see,” said Saint-Germain thoughtfully in the same tongue. “What more did you notice?”

  “His shop is short handed,” Ruthger reminded him, “and he has only two apprentices now: last year—”

  “—he had four,” Saint-Germain finished for him. “That is discouraging, at least for him.”

  “At least,” Ruthger seconded. “He lost one apprentice to high fever and putrid bowels, but the other left for Mass one day and never returned.”

  “Kidnapped, does he think?” Saint-Germain asked.

  “Not kidnapped: he fears the lad was taken by the Secular Arm of the Church, and is being held in one of the monastery prisons,” Ruthger said, his emotions carefully banked. “It’s that, or he fled the country.”

  “Had he done anything to merit such attention?” Saint-Germain inquired, an edge in his voice as he tossed the gold again, and caught it, then set it on the table.

  “Gerben didn’t say, but he thought that the youth had been working with some comrades to print up broadsheets—you know, the kind that are posted on walls throughout the city, most inflammatory in their rhetoric, inciting disputes and conflict among the various local religious factions.” Ruthger paused. “Until they are white-washed over or torn down.”

  Saint-Germain gave a single nod. “It is not something about which Gerben may safely make inquiries, if that is the case. Neither the civil nor the religious authorities take well to those who spread dissension among the people, and small wonder. Gerben’s oppugns on the apprentice’s behalf could lead to his interrogation for making inquiry.”

  “Assuming, if he were not detained, he would be told anything at all,” added Ruthger.

  “Yes; assuming that,” said Saint-Germain, getting down from his stool and pacing the length of his study. “It is getting worse, is it not?” he asked from the far end of the room.

  Ruthger had been with Saint-Germain long enough to know that he meant the tension between religious groups. “Yes, and it will not soon be better.”

  “No, I fear not,” said Saint-Germain, picking up the gold and holding it to the light. “Seven ounces, English weight. I was hoping for ten.”

  “Seven ounces is not a small amount,” Ruthger remarked as he took the lump of gold Saint-Germain had made in the athanor.

  “If matters were more settled, then I would agree,” Saint-Germain said.

  “But you’re worried,” said Ruthger.

  “T
hat I am,” said Saint-Germain in the dialect of Bruges. “This city is like a pot on the simmer. It could soon boil over, and that could mean more hardship than most citizens now endure. Spain is proving a hard master for their Netherlands, and Clemente is unlikely to rein in any Hapsburg, not since the Spanish sacked Roma.”

  “Do you think the Church will try to bring the city to heel?” Ruthger sighed.

  “Spain would doubtless like to make such an attempt, and the Church might permit it, but the Holy Roman Emperor would not countenance so oppressive a course, or so it appears.” Saint-Germain glanced toward the door, aware of a soft sound beyond it. He signaled to Ruthger, and then went on, “Protestants are more tolerated by the Austrian Hapsburgs than the Spanish Hapsburgs, though they are all ruled by the same man.”

  “Does that lessen or increase the instability, do you think?” Ruthger moved a few steps nearer the door.

  “It is too soon to say,” said Saint-Germain. “If the Spanish have their way, there will be blood in the streets and then the chance for negotiated resolution will be lost. You know how these confrontations escalate: we have seen it before.”

  Ruthger put his hand lightly on the door-latch. “How many more times will this happen?”

  “Pitting faith against faith?” Saint-Germain came back down the chamber. “As long as the gods are a mystery, or so I fear.”

  At his signal, Ruthger opened the door, to find Oton Marchand, the senior footman, standing close to it. “So!” Ruthger said. “You carry a message?”

  Oton colored to the roots of his fair hair. “I … I … that is … No message.” This admission ended on a brusque sigh.

  “So you were listening.” No one moved as Saint-Germain regarded Oton steadily for a short while. Then, apparently satisfied, he said, “Well, you are come in good time. I have an errand for you.”

  “Certainly,” said Oton in a rush of an emotion that might have been gratitude. “Whatever you require.”

  Saint-Germain saw the flick of Ruthger’s eye, but continued on as if he had not. “Have a plate of sausage and cheese made ready, and bring a pitcher of beer and a tankard, if you will.”

  “Certainly,” said Oton, and started away from Saint-Germain, his features twisted in dismay. “Your pardon, Grav; I should not have—”

  “You will need another tub of wood if you want to keep your fire going,” Ruthger pointed out.

  Saint-Germain offered a rueful smile. “Thank you for noticing. Yes, by all means, have a tub of wood sent up, Oton. It would not do for me to receive Gerben in a cold room.”

  Ruthger nodded as Oton hastened away, “I wonder to whom he reports?” He did not expect an answer. “I’ll go to the kitchen to get your tray, and leave you to prepare your dispatch to Gennaro Emerenzio; the courier will be here in an hour.”

  “You are good to remind me,” said Saint-Germain, ducking his head as if chagrined by his lapse in memory; he reached into a drawer under the table and pulled out a sealed envelope, which he handed to Ruthger. “This should be sufficient. The courier is one of Belfountain’s, or one we have hired here?”

  “Yes; one of Belfountain’s. As part of the retaining contract I struck with him on your behalf.” He slipped the envelope inside his doublet, frowning a bit, then said, “If anyone should inquire, am I at liberty to reveal the terms of your agreement with Belfountain?”

  Saint-Germain’s glint of a smile told Ruthger that he had been right: Saint-Germain wanted any household spies to know about his arrangements with private couriers. “Certainly, if they have good reason to ask for it.”

  With a slight nod, Ruthger left the room, securing the latch before going back down the narrow stairs to the main floor, and from there along the corridor to the kitchen.

  Wenzel Horner, the chief cook, was a man of moderate height, but with shoulders and forearms like a blacksmith. Just now he busy cutting up cabbage for the pork stew cooking in the large pot hung over the coals in the maw of the fireplace. He looked up as Ruthger came in. “It’s you, is it? What am I to do for the Grav?”

  “He would like a tray sent up for his visitor—when the visitor arrives,” said Ruthger. “Sausage, cheese, and beer.”

  “I have a barrel we have just tapped; it is better than many barrels have been of late.” Wenzel yawned. “Is that all the Grav needs me to do?”

  “Don’t feel unappreciated,” said Ruthger. “My master’s privacy in his dining is the custom among his people. Do not feel offended that he does not avail himself of your excellent cooking.”

  Wenzel sniffed. “One would think he has no consequence at all—he never has guests to dine, and he, himself, keeps his own company for his meals, whatever they may be.”

  “It is the way of those of his blood,” said Ruthger in a tone that deflected any further pursuit on the cook’s part.

  Wenzel scraped the chopped cabbage into a bowl. “I have applebread in the warming ovens, or does that tempt you?”

  “Alas,” said Ruthger, and then said, “But I am sure my master’s visitor would like to have it with his sausage and cheese.”

  “I will see he has a slice or two,” Wenzel said magnanimously.

  Knowing that the cook’s pique had been mollified, Ruthger left the kitchen, bound for the steward’s quarters, where he spent a short while in reviewing the household accounts with Saint Philemon. By the time he returned to the kitchen, he had handed off the envelope to Belfountain’s courier and received a note from the butcher, saying that there were fresh lambs in the market. As he approached Wenzel to arrange about shopping, he was informed word had come from Oton that the printer Gerben had arrived and was waiting in the vestibule. Making a rapid decision, Ruthger said, “Have Oton escort Gerben to the Grav’s study. I will bring the refreshments up to them.”

  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 stu
dy.

  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.

  “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.