Commedia della Morte (17 page)

“That is no reassurance for me,” said the cook warily, his gaze directed at some point beyond the players. “How would those of us still here stop you if you decided to steal, or to vandalize the estate? Or set the mansion itself on fire? You have superior numbers. Two house-servants cannot contain you.”

“We will give you our pledge that we will do nothing obstreperous, nothing unlawful, nothing against the expectations of hospitality,” said Pascal at his most persuasive. “All of us, on the Cross, if you like, or the tricoleur, if you prefer.”

“For pity’s sake, don’t badger him,” Photine whispered to Pascal as she cast an uneasy glance on the man inside the fence, trying to think of what she might say to persuade him. She moved a little nearer to the gate, prepared to extend her hand to the man if he presented her such an opportunity.

“Gigot, it’s Heurer,” Theron called out, descending from the second wagon and holding out his hand in a familiar way he had never before demonstrated to a servant. “What are you saying? Don’t refuse us.”

“Monsieur Heurer?” Gigot exclaimed in surprise, shading his eyes with one massive hand. “What are you doing with—”

Theron cut him short, stepping up to the gate to face him. “You say there are only two of you here. Who’s left with you? Isn’t Remi still here? I thought he was staying on. Where has everyone else gone? Where is Madelaine de Montalia? When did she leave?”

“A courier came and the Revolutionary Guards took Madame away; that was just over a week ago. The few servants who had remained here left, all but Maxime and I; we were charged with care of Montalia. The grooms have been charged with keeping the horses ready for the Revolutionary Guard; they stay in the stable. We’re supposed to maintain this place, all of it, orchards, gardens, house, stable, livestock, and fowl, the two of us. Two.” He reached for the lock on the chain that held the gate closed. “If you are with these … folk, I believe it may be all right to admit you.” He pulled an iron key from the pocket of his apron, an air of resignation about him like a cloak. “You understand that you can’t stay?”

“You’re most kind,” said Photine with a smile calculated to melt the iciest heart.

From his place on the driving-box of the larger cart, da San-Germain frowned at the cook, his eyes becoming keener as he listened for what Gigot would say, his concentration much greater than it appeared to be.

“We don’t want to be here more than two days at most, to rest and to make plans, since we are looking for Madame de Montalia,” Theron explained. “If you can tell us where Madelaine has been taken—?”

“They told us she was going to be held at Avignon,” said Gigot as he worked the key in the lock.

“Why?” Theron demanded.

“Who can say?” Gigot pulled the lock open and removed it from the chain, then started to unwrap it from the gate. “The men who are in charge now, they do as they like, when they like, to whom they like—as bad as those they replaced, if you ask me.” He stepped back, pulling the complaining gate open, and standing aside to permit the wagons to move through; his expression was dour. “No one is safe, no one.” He looked directly at Theron. “That includes you, Monsieur Heurer.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Theron.

Gigot nodded. “Lead these people up to the mansion; take your vehicles around to the stable. I’ll warn Maxime to be ready for you, with beds and blankets, then I’ll try to put a supper together for you, though there’s not much in the larder and no one wants to hunt. Replace the lock when you’re all inside. We want no more guests today, particularly no more unexpected ones.” With that graceless remark, he trudged away up the curving drive, not bothering to check on the troupe to see if they followed him.

“What on earth has happened?” Photine asked da San-Germain as his cart rolled through the gate. “Why is your kinswoman not here?”

“It would appear she has been arrested,” said da San-Germain in a very neutral tone; he pulled in his mules and moved enough to allow her to join him on the driver’s box.

“That much is obvious. I wondered if you knew the reason why,” she said as she clambered up beside him.

“How could I?” He set his pair in motion again. “I’ve had only the one letter from her, and I gathered from it that she was confined to her estate. If she wrote to me about her arrest, I haven’t received the letter.”

“But that changes everything, doesn’t it?” Photine adjusted her skirts and laid her hand on his arm. “What do you want to do about it?”

“Go to Avignon,” he said grimly.

“I didn’t think you’d do anything else,” she said.

“If you think it too dangerous, you may return to Padova,” he offered. “You’ve risked enough coming this far. Feo can escort you back, if you like.”

“What good would that do?” She expected no answer and got none. “Well, we should be able to perform in Avignon, that’s something,” she said, doing her best to make light of the fear that clutched her.

“That will get us into the city, and may…” His words trailed off as he became lost in unwelcome thought: Madelaine in prison. The very notion was appalling. He fought off a welling of memories of prisons he had occupied, from the oubliette where he received offerings of young women sacrificed to his appetite, to the cell under the Flavian Circus, to the tower in Damascus, to the— He stifled the recollections, then turned to Photine. “We must prepare how we’re going to introduce ourselves to the Revolutionary Assembly there.”

“So we stay here tonight and tomorrow night? Heurer seems to think we will.” Photine raised her voice enough to be heard by most of the troupe.

“The horses and mules could do with a rest,” said da San-Germain distantly. “And so could your company.”

Photine considered this. “How far are we from Avignon?”

“In leagues or in travel days?” da San-Germain countered, then softened his response. “We may have delays in our travel, so an estimate could be unreliable.”

“Then how many days would you estimate it will take us to reach Avignon from here, if there are no delays and we aren’t detained??” She clearly expected an answer.

“Four, perhaps five days, if the roads are open,” said da San-Germain, “and if we travel through the day, no riposino.”

“That’s hard on the animals,” said Photine.

“It is. If you would rather make the journey in six or seven days, the teams will be more rested, and so will we. But it may mean avoiding inns and markets while we go; the way things are at the moment, it will be risky to stay in remote settlements. There is so much coseismal opinion about in these times that doing any kind of performing could bring us trouble, and that could lead to consequences none of us would want.”

“But won’t we offend villagers if we don’t perform for them? Surely they’re eager for a little entertainment, to relieve the stress of the time?” Photine asked, nearly pleading. “Wouldn’t our presence be an insult unless we performed?”

“Only if we try to lodge there.” He gave her a quick, mercurial smile. “We’ll be safer in cities than in towns. There are more opinions in them than there are in small villages, and that affords us protection.” They had been moving up the curve of the drive through an avenue of cypress, and now emerged to see an elegant chateau ahead of them. It was in the style of the early fifteenth century, three storeys in height, made of reddish stone, with an addition on the northwest side that was less than a hundred years old, done in the fashion of the Sun King, including a large salon des fenetres that opened onto a terrace and overlooked a neglected rose-garden and a half-empty, brackish ornamental water framed by unkempt cat-tails.

“How unfortunate,” Photine said as she took in the sad state of the place. “It must have been quite grand once.”

“And will be again,” said da San-Germain.

“Do you think so?”

“I know it would be Madelaine’s intention,” he said, obliquely.

“Slanting your bets,” Photine approved. “Just as well, given what the world has become.” She leaned against his shoulder to express comfort. “You’re a good man, Conte; better than most of your kind. I pray that your loyalty is richly rewarded.”

“I’m not seeking rewards—I want to see that Madelaine is safe.”

Photine patted his leg affectionately. “You’re too literal. There are many kinds of rewards; I wasn’t talking of money.”

“I didn’t think you were,” he answered, kindness returning to his dark eyes.

After that they went in silence until they reached the stable-yard, when Photine got down from the driving-box; before she took her troupe in hand, she looked at da San-Germain and said, “If ever I needed help from a kinsman, I would hope that he would be such another man as you are. I hope your Madelaine realizes how fortunate she is.” With that, she turned away and shouted to Aloys, “Unhitch the teams out here, and line up the wagons against the far wall before you stall the animals. We’ll need to set a guard tonight.”

Da San-Germain watched her go, once again wondering how much of what she said was a performance and how much was sincere, and if, for her, there was any real difference between one and the other. Realizing he couldn’t answer that question any more now than he had been able to since their first meeting, he set the cart’s simple brake and climbed down from the driving-box, only to find Roger approaching him from the smaller cart. “Are your mules unhitched?”

“Hariot is attending to unhitching; he’ll deal with yours in a few minutes. Urbain and Lothaire are handling the horses—Urbain will leave tomorrow. Feo’s seeing to the vehicles,” said Roger, and went on in the language of China, “What is this? Is Madelaine truly missing?”

“Apparently she is under arrest in Avignon,” said da San-Germain quietly in the same tongue. “Not a good sign, I’m afraid.”

“Certainly not,” Roger said. He nodded toward the mansion behind them. “Do you think it wise to stay here? Could we be in danger?”

“For two days? How could we be? Who knows we’re here.” Da San-Germain began to disengage the harness from the cart. “Even if the servants send word to Avignon about our arrival, they won’t be able to reach the city before we’ve left.”

“True enough,” said Roger, signaling to Hariot, who was leading the mules toward the stable, speaking in French, “They’ll need their hooves cleaned carefully.”

“And water and hay,” said Hariot over his shoulder.

“The same for my team,” da San-Germain called after him; Hariot nodded and kept on walking.

“I’ll make sure all the animals are watered and fed,” Roger said, once again in the Chinese of the northern capital. “You and Madame Photine can work out the housing arrangements with Maxime and arrange meals with the cook. If I have the opportunity, I’ll try to find your chests of native earth, as well.”

“Very prudent of you, as always, old friend; I needn’t have any qualms while you’re about,” said da San-Germain, an ironic lift to his fine brows as he glanced toward the stable. “Let us hope I won’t need the chests.”

Roger ducked his head. “Best to be prepared.”

“And in that same spirit, I’ll arrange for your food with the cook,” da San-Germain said. “I’d like to think that we can have an easy stay here.”

“But you’re uncertain,” said Roger. “And not simply because you’re worried about Madelaine.”

“Not entirely, no; I see that the two house-servants left are exhausted, and there is more work to be done than we can supply.”

“You want to put the mansion in order for her, don’t you?”

“How well you know me,” said da San-Germain, his expression turning sardonic. “And of course, I would like to believe that our arrival will not increase Madelaine’s danger, but it may, if it is reported in Avignon.”

“Why should it be?” Roger asked. “What danger does a group of players cause her?”

“I have no idea—and that perplexes me more than the knowledge that she is in the hands of the Revolutionary Assembly.” He moved away from the cart so that Hariot, who was returning across the stable-yard toward them, could lead his team away to the barn. “If I can find the opportunity, I’ll want to sound out the cook.”

“And give him cause to remember you?” Roger warned.

“If he is still here, he must have some loyalty to Madelaine remaining in him. He might be able to provide more information—”

“Let me do it,” Roger said with more genuine emotion than he usually permitted himself to reveal. “Servants gossip, and any questions I ask will mean little to the cook. If you ask them, they will become noteworthy, and that—”

“An excellent notion, and one I might observe,” said da San-Germain. “I’ll await your report tonight.”

Roger very nearly smiled, his faded-blue eyes brightening. “Thank you, my master.”

Da San-Germain looked at him, bemused. “If I have done anything to deserve your thanks, then I am pleased.”

Roger gave a nod that was more of a bow, and stepped away. “Will you be alone tonight?”

“I believe so,” said da San-Germain, speaking in French once again. “Enee has been complaining about me again, and Photine wants to reassure him.”

“Indulge him, you mean, which only serves to encourage him further,” said Roger, still in Chinese, then raised his voice to speak to Aloys in French. “Do you need another hand to bed stalls?”

“If you’re willing,” Aloys said.

“Another pair of hands makes shorter work,” said Roger, quoting the old saw from his long-ago childhood; he turned away from da San-Germain to take the remuda line to lead the reserve horses into the stable.

Da San-Germain watched him go, thinking as he often did, that restoring his manservant to life in the Year of the Four Caesars was one of the most providential actions he had ever taken; Roger was steadfast, loyal, and resourceful, unswerving in his devotion, able to deal with da San-Germain through all manner of perils. A number of all the things they had gone through together flickered in images through his mind: Spain, Italy, China, India, the Americas; he had a quick, agonizing memory of being taken down from a cross in Mexico, and his sense of obligation intensified.

“Ragoczy?” a voice said at his elbow, a bit more loudly than seemed necessary.

Da San-Germain turned to see Crepin Sillondroit standing slightly behind him, an expectant smile firmly fixed. “Yes?”