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

  “Unfortunately, I concur,” said Saint-Germain, his expression settling into grim lines. “I am concerned for the writers whose works I publish: they could well be caught in this lunacy.”

  “So they might.” Eschen took a sip of the ale. “I will have my clerks prepare letters for any you stipulate, and I will send them instructions on how to proceed if they are asked to present themselves to Church authorities. If they are taken without notification, then I will act as soon as I receive word from you to proceed on their behalf. I will put this petition before the judges by the middle of June; I doubt they will hear the matter sooner. You may want to appoint a member of your household to be your messenger to me; one of the lesser servants would be best, as they’re the least likely to be detained themselves.” He reached for a hand-roll. “The Guilds are already in an uproar over the various Catholic and Protestant efforts to make the Guilds include oaths of faith as part of their membership conditions.” He broke the roll in half and paddled a helping of butter onto the soft white bread. “The Master of the Joiners’ Guild has said that a hammer is a hammer and it strikes the same, whether a Catholic or a Protestant or a New World native wields it.”

  “If he works as precisely as he speaks, he is most deserving of his position,” said Saint-Germain.

  “The Spanish may hold it against him,” said Eschen. “And the Emperor cannot deny the Spanish some satisfaction, being their King.”

  “Unrest leads to difficult situations at the best of times,” said Saint-Germain, memories of Lo-Yang and Thebes, Roma and Fiorenze, Avignon and Delhi, and places with names long forgotten, simmering in his thoughts.

  “Truly.” Eschen began to eat, nodding his approval of the hand-roll. “This is really delicious. Aren’t you going to have some?”

  “Alas, no,” said Saint-Germain. “Those of my blood tend to require a very limited diet.”

  “Then I hope you won’t mind if I take my fill?” Eschen smiled as he bit into the other half of the hand-roll.

  “Please do,” said Saint-Germain, leaning back on the mantel of the fireplace, his shoulders touching the enameled wood. He watched the advocate eat, saying nothing until the ale was almost gone and Eschen’s attention was once again directed toward him. “Regarding your concerns about the temperament of the city, there is a spice merchant in Calais, a cousin of Hendrik van der Meer, whose ships anchor in this port: he—the cousin—has written to van der Meer that the danger of travel now includes risk of being taken as a heretic, or set upon by rebellious peasants, not in Germany or Spanish territory alone. Does it seem so to you?”

  “There are examples of such things reported everywhere,” said Eschen, wiping his mouth with the linen strip provided for him. “You are hardly the only man in Amsterdam to be under scrutiny just now.”

  “I did not assume I was,” said Saint-Germain, nonetheless feeling relieved that he had nothing more to deal with than any other publisher in the city. “Have you any idea why their attentions should light upon me, beyond the bounds of chance?”

  “Not specifically, no; or not any I might suppose would bring about such examination. But I did discover one thing: it appears that a widow, the Widow Rukveldt, living near Saint Bartholome’s Church, reported to her Confessor that she had had impious dreams of you, and wished to repent of her dreams, and of the sins you and she committed in her sleep. Do you know her?”

  “If she is the young woman with the very light hair and greenish eyes whose husband was a silversmith, then I have met her on perhaps six occasions; at fetes and processions and the like—much as I have met any number of women whose houses front the canals of this quarter. A handsome woman in her way, and of strong character.” There had been more private meetings and greater revelations, but they occurred while the Widow Rukveldt slept, and he kept that to himself. “What has she said about her dreams?”

  “Only that they cause her many sins of the flesh. It distresses her that you are in them,” said Eschen. “Or so the secretary of the court told me. As a follower of Luther, he is opposed to acting upon unsubstantiated complaints.”

  “How, in the name of good sense, could they substantiate her claims? These are modern times, not two centuries ago, when men could be imprisoned for their dreams, and termites could be sued for eating part of a church.” Saint-Germain shook his head.

  “They need some more information regarding you and your habits, to see if there is anything in your nature that could account for her accusations. I am of the opinion that your foreignness and your wealth are sufficient explanation, but the courts may not agree. That is why all your staff has been taken in charge of the judges—at the order of the Church. Despite Protestant objections, the men lack the wherewithal to pay the bond the judges have set for their release—”

  Saint-Germain was pleased that he had taken the precaution of making gold and silver in his athanor during April, for he was certain he now had a sufficient supply of the precious metals to provide the bond required. “Where have they taken my workers? Are they in prison, and if they are, whose prison are they in—the Church’s, the Protestant’s, or the city’s?”

  “They have been detained in one of the larger Catholic churches, I believe. I’ll find out which by noon tomorrow.” Eschen faltered, clearing his throat. “So far, as I understand it, they have not been harmed. The Church clerks are questioning your men to see if the widow is a tool of the Devil, offering lies to the ruin of good Christians, or if she has been bewitched, and if she has, by whom.” He regarded Saint-Germain narrowly. “Have we anything to fear in such context?”

  Saint-Germain opened his hands. “Nothing that I can think of,” while he inwardly cursed himself for visiting the woman in her dreams four times. “Is she in any danger?”

  “If she is lying, or if they decide she’s lying, of course she is.” Eschen drank the very last of his ale. “And if she has any claim to witchcraft, she may well be burned. Does that change what you told me?”

  “No, not as such; I have no reason to suppose she is a witch,” said Saint-Germain, wincing at a sudden, sharp recollection of the Piazza della Signoria in Fiorenze, where Suor Estasia walked into one of the pyres to burn, and Dukkai with her throat cut; he coughed. “But it troubles me that she could suffer because of what she has said, and about dreams. All living men and women dream. That does not mean she has committed diabolic acts, because she dreams. Whatever else she is, she is not a witch,” he reiterated emphatically.

  “How can you be sure of that?” Eschen challenged.

  “Because she is a mother and she would not be likely to expose her children to the dangers of witchcraft, not with her husband dead and no relatives in Amsterdam who would take them in,” said Saint-Germain, choosing the most common argument offered in defense of accused widows.

  “There are those who would say that her widowhood is what has inclined her to witchcraft, to protect her family, however damnably,” said Eschen, the habits of advocacy inclining him to put himself at cross-purposes to Saint-Germain for the sake of anticipating arguments.

  “They would be wrong in this woman’s case,” said Saint-Germain.

  Eschen held up both his hands. “Grav, let us extricate you from this coil before we turn too much attention to the one who caused it.”

  “Very well, but she is not to be abandoned,” Saint-Germain told him.

  “I will do what I can to be sure she comes to no harm, but I cannot promise to protect her to your disadvantage. I am pledged to uphold your best interests first and foremost.” He leaned back on the settee. “I have a notion that we would do well to go voluntarily to the public courts and offer a statement under oath that will proclaim you to be a man of rectitude and morality. They are summoning that woman whose book you have published—”

  “Erneste van Amsteljaxter?” Saint-Germain ventured, although he knew it could be no other; he managed to keep the alarm out of his voice.

  “That’s she,” said Eschen. “If we give a—”
/>   “But what can they suspect her of doing?” Saint-Germain interrupted.

  “What else: seduction and corruption,” said Eschen.

  “They believe that I seduced her?” This seemed impossible, especially after all the care he had taken to be sure the proprieties were observed.

  “No; of course not. They think that she has seduced and corrupted you,” said Eschen, and stared as Saint-Germain burst into rare laughter. “Why do you find that amusing?”

  “Because it is—very,” he answered. “Her aunt Evangeline, who is an Assumptionist nun, has always accompanied her as a chaperone, and I have been at pains to avoid the least hint of indecorum. Or do the good clerics think one of their own has encouraged her niece to debauchery?”

  Eschen considered this and nodded slowly. “I hope this is true, for if it is, such precautions as you have taken may stand you in good stead. Though some of the Assumptionists have been aiding the women who are adding to the city’s unrest, and that may count against her.”

  “That trouble with the wool-workers?” Saint-Germain asked.

  “Yes: not that it should concern us now.” Eschen made a quick motion with his hand and sat forward to indicate they had other matters to discuss. “You said you were chaperoned while the woman was here. Can you tell me who can verify your claim? Not your manservant, since he’s as much a foreigner as you are, but someone familiar with this city.”

  “My steward—who is from Amsterdam—can vouch for both of us.” Saint-Germain pondered what Eschen had said. “Would you like to talk with him while you are here?”

  “Yes, but not just yet; there are more immediate matters for us to discuss.”

  “Hardly surprising,” said Saint-Germain, his expression taking on a wry cast.

  “You may well find this amusing, Grav,” Eschen warned him. “But do not assume it cannot touch you, or cause you damage. This is something much more mercurial than it looks, and that is where the danger lies. Depending upon which way the public sentiment turns, your circumstances may be advantageous or disastrous, and there is no way to determine how it will go, or how quickly. I will work with as much haste as I can, but you must remember that most of what is going to happen is out of my hands. I’ll do what I can to check the damage, but the law puts limitations on my efforts, and on yours.” He put his elbows on his knees and looked up at Saint-Germain. “You will need to be prepared.”

  “For what?” Saint-Germain inquired, thinking back to other times and other places to similarly volatile times.

  Eschen nodded twice, signaling his satisfaction with the question. “That, my dear Grav, is what we must attempt to sort out.”

  Text of a letter from Giovanni Boromeo in Venezia to his patron, Franzicco Ragoczy, Conte di Santo-Germano, in care of Germain Ragoczy, Grav Saint-Germain, in Antwerp, written in the Venezian dialect, delivered by courier eleven days after it was written, and carried by private messenger four days later to the Eclipse Trading and Mercantile Company warehouse in Amsterdam.

  To the most esteemed foreigner, Franzicco Ragoczy, Conte di Santo-Germano, through the good offices of your kinsman in Antwerp, the urgent greetings of Giovanni Boromeo, printer of Venezia, who beseeches Your Excellency to reply as quickly as possible, and with full answers to the questions I put to you, for even if the information is troublesome, it is preferable to the continued silence I have had from you in regard to my last six letters.

  I have taken in your page Niccola, and one of your footmen, but with the falling revenues of this press, I fear I cannot extend myself any further than I already have, although I have attempted to find other situations for all but four of your servants. I wish this were not necessary, that there was some way to keep the household intact, but such is not sustainable any longer, and unless you have reserves unknown here, your house in Campo San Luca may well have to be sold before the end of the year. As it is, I am using my own savings to keep our publishing work on-going. I cannot continue in this fashion for more than five months, and then I will have to resort to the same kind of economies that have overtaken Pier-Ariana Salier, which would mean curtailing our publishing schedule still more stringently than I have done already.

  Even though your fortune was lost in the Lisbon earthquake, as your business factor tells us, the least you could do is to inform those of us still in your employ what likelihood there is of you making a recovery, and when. I am willing to do all within my power to maintain our publication program, but if I am to do this, I must have some money or none of my printers will work for me, as their wages would be uncertain. I know you left a certain amount of money on deposit with the Savii, but that it is to be used for taxes, and so I can only point to it as proof of past earnings. So far, all reports from Gennaro Emerenzio are discouraging at best, and he can give us no assurance that you are ever going to regain even a portion of the wealth you once had.

  The news from the Spanish Netherlands is hardly more heartening than the news from Lisbon. It is as if all the world has run mad, with the full consent of the Kings of the earth and the Pope. Perhaps there is a devilish contagion from the New World that has entered into the people of Europe and made them all crazed, for surely the situation among the Catholics and Protestants has become dire. Emerenzio has informed us that he has had no direct communication from you for months, and that he fears you may have become a victim of the fighting that we are told rages in many northern cities. He has pledged to try to discover if this is the case, or if you have been made a prisoner by the Protestants, and to do what he may to secure your release, if you are being held on charges.

  I pray this reaches you, and that you will finally provide an answer to all these questions that have mounted up so troublingly. I hope that you may yet deliver your press from ruin, and regain the elegance of living that you possessed but a year ago. I trust that as your ships return from their voyages their cargos may serve to restore your fortunes and lead to greater wealth for you. May God grant you a return to good fortune, and to Venezia, where you are sorely needed.

  In all duty and respect,

  Giovanni Boromeo

  master-printer

  At Campo San Proccopio, Venezia, this 1stday of June, 1531

  8

  Erneste van Amsteljaxter pushed past Ruthger, almost stumbling as she entered Saint-Germain’s study. “You must come, Grav! You must come!” she exclaimed, then clapped her hands to her mouth, looking abashed at her outburst.

  “She says it’s urgent,” Ruthger said somewhat unnecessarily as he held the door open.

  Saint-Germain glanced up from his close perusal of the binding on the latest book from Eclipse Press: The History of European Trading Ports from Ancient to Modern Times. The shutters were still open, the evening being only slightly cool, and the oil-lamps and candles flickered in the slow breeze, scented with the salt water, tar, and the city. “She? Who has come—” Then he recognized the woman. “Deme van Amsteljaxter. Welcome.” It was an automatic greeting, but seeing how distressed this visitor was, he got to his feet as he set the book aside. “What is the trouble, Deme van Amsteljaxter?”

  For an instant she looked dazed; she stopped, undecided, in the center of the room, her face briefly limned by the light: her skin was unusually pale and her eyes were sunken in deep livid shadows. “Grav,” she said suddenly, as if awakening from heavy sleep. “Oh, Grav, I … You must help. Please. No one else would have us.”

  “Of course I will help, if it is in my power to do so,” he said, and took a step toward her.

  For once she did not retreat: she held out her hand and rested it lightly on his arm. “I hope you may; I hope someone may,” she sighed, and her head drooped.

  “Deme van Amsteljaxter,” Saint-Germain exclaimed as he reach to support her with his arm. “What is wrong?” He glanced up at Ruthger. “Bring Deme van Amsteljaxter a cup of hot wine.”

  “Hot?” Ruthger asked, a little taken aback by such instruction; the June dusk was hardly chilly.

  �
��She is pale and her hands are cold,” said Saint-Germain in the tongue of Kiev. “She is in need of revival.”

  “I understand,” said Ruthger, and hurried away toward the stairs. Using his arm across her back to guide her, Saint-Germain moved Erneste to the broad, leather-upholstered settee in the study, and helped her to sink onto it. Once she was settled, he crouched down beside the settee, took one of her hands between his, and said, “Tell me what has happened, Deme.” He would have preferred to use her name rather than her title, but he could not be certain that they were not being watched by one of the servants, and so he maintained a strict propriety with her.

  Erneste pinched the bridge of her nose, and untied her Englishstyle, angular coif; there were small spots of blood along the edge of the stiffened linen, and a faint smear on her cheek. She loosened the ribbands holding the under-cap and finally pulled it off, revealing a coil of putty-colored braids. “Oh, God help me.” Without the linen and buckram framing her face, she looked much younger, and more vulnerable than she did with the coif on.

  “Do what, Deme?” He said it lightly enough, but there was an underlying purpose to what he asked. “What can I do for you, in God’s stead?” He picked up the headdress and held it inattentively in one hand.

  She finally looked at him, and blinked slowly. “I … I’m sorry; I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here,” she said like a child found filching sweets; she straightened up. “I thank you for admitting me, Grav, but I realize I have made an error in coming here. I will not trespass on your hospitality. I’m sorry for intruding. Doubtless you have many other matters to attend to than this foolish woman’s megrims.”