Commedia della Morte (40 page)

“He thinks he’s … protecting … his mother,” said da San-Germain in Visigothic Spanish. “He has … wanted me … out of her life … since they arrived … in Padova.”

“He’s in error. She will take no harm from you, but Enee is another matter,” said Roger in the same language; he glimpsed Crepin moving a little closer to them, listening.

“That he is,” said da San-Germain, pressing his lips together as Roger eased him over the threshold into the kitchen, which was now filled with activity.

Roger raised his voice to the main scullery maid. “Is the bath ready? My master must have his wounds cleaned. I’ll need a sheet, torn into strips, to bandage him.” He knew that the staff was curious about da San-Germain, thanks to Crepin’s rush through the kitchen to summon him to the stable.

The scullery maid stared at da San-Germain with unabashed horror and curiosity, then answered Roger’s question. “The bath has just been poured. I’ll have a torn sheet ready in half an hour, if that will suit you?”

“Fine; fine,” said Roger, and kept going, entering the corridor three strides from the rear stairs. He saw Crepin coming after them, and motioned him to go ahead up the stairs. “This may take a while: there’s a deep wound in his hip and climbing won’t be easy. Put the seat in the room; we’ll be up in a while.”

Crepin paled but said with the assumption of aplomb, “If you need my help, you have only to call me. I’m at your disposal.” With that, he went up the stairs with unusual haste, the seat held ahead of him.

“Best not … to ask for … his help,” said da San-Germain, no condemnation in his observation. “He’s upset … already.”

“That he is,” Roger agreed.

Da San-Germain took a long, unsteady breath. “Shall we try … the stairs?”

“This will be difficult, my master,” Roger warned as they reached the bottom of the flight. “Tell me if this is too painful.”

“Better to … have it over with,” said da San-Germain, steeling himself for the ascent, clamping his teeth closed so that he would make no sound.

“There are eight treads, a landing, then six more treads,” Roger said as he moved onto the first stair. “Use your left leg; it should be less painful—the wound is in your right hip.” He contrived to maneuver da San-Germain into a position that would allow him to pull himself up the banister with his free hand. “Are you ready?”

“I hope so,” was his response.

It took an adjustment in how da San-Germain kept hold of Roger before the two of them were prepared to continue. Roger shifted his weight, half-lifting da San-Germain with him.

“Do you remember … getting me down … from the cross in … Mexico?” da San-Germain asked, trying to distract himself and Roger from their current situation.

“That was difficult,” Roger concurred, going to the second step.

“I wasn’t much … help then … either.”

“Can you lift your leg a little more?”

Da San-Germain complied and was a bit surprised to realize he had done what was needed. Then he reminded himself that there were still thirteen stairs and a landing to go. He stifled a groan and prepared to try for the next step.

It took a bit more than twenty minutes to climb to the upper corridor and another five minutes to make it to the room; they encountered no one on the stairs, and Roger assumed the innkeeper had warned the staff away from the rear stairs. When they finally got to the room Crepin was already there, standing next to the driving-seat, which he had leaned against the side of the armoire; he was doing his best to appear composed, but he was pale and his hands were shaking. The middle of the room was taken up by the enameled iron bathtub, standing on four lion’s-paw feet; it was two-thirds full of water that steamed in the wan morning.

“I can help you get him undressed,” Crepin volunteered.

“Yes. Thanks,” said Roger, easing da San-Germain down on the edge of the bed. “Start with his boots.”

Crepin knelt to remove the boots, and said as he did, “They’re ruined. There’s slashes on both of them, and so much blood…”

“Everything he’s wearing is ruined,” said Roger, working to ease da San-Germain’s right arm out of the cloak’s half-sleeve; there were three wide rents in the canvas, all of them rimed in dark-red.

Da San-Germain shuddered. “Pardon me … I’m … exhausted.” He slumped where he sat, his head drooping, the pain eating at him like a mob of starving rats.

Roger continued on his work while Crepin finished pulling the first boot off. “Set it aside. I’ll take care of it later.”

“You should probably save the clothes for the Department of Public Safety and the Revolutionary Court. In case there are questions about the extent of his injuries. My uncle is an advocate, and he’s always keeping exhibits for the Court.” Crepin brushed his hands together fastidiously. “If you have a sack where I can put them?”

“I’ll take care of it once Ragoczy is safely bathed and in bed,” Roger said patiently. “You’re right about the sack.”

Crepin stared at da San-Germain, taking stock of his condition and his livid pallor. “Do you think he’s going to … recover?”

“In time,” said Roger, thinking of the many things da San-Germain had survived over their seventeen hundred years together. “Those of his blood have great … stamina.”

“I can … hear you,” da San-Germain reminded them. “And I … will … recover.”

“I’ll tell the troupe,” Crepin said, tugging on the other boot. “They’ll want to know.”

“You can tell the staff of the inn, as well,” Roger suggested, freeing da San-Germain’s left arm; da San-Germain straightened up a little to make it easier to remove the cloak. “Thank you, my master; this will be more comfortable coming off now.”

Crepin set the second boot aside. “The britches?”

“I’ll attend to them.” He snapped his fingers. “I have it: why don’t you go get a bottle of wine and take it out to Pascal and Feo?”

“Are you sure you want them to drink while they guard Enee?” Crepin asked with some surprise.

“If they’re as distressed as you and I are, I should think it would help them. You may drink with them, if you like. You will find it steadies your nerves.” Roger now had the cloak free except for the portion of it that da San-Germain was sitting on.

“Oh. All right,” he said, getting up and wandering toward the door. “What do I tell the barkeeper?”

“Tell him that Ragoczy will pay for it.”

“But he might worry. Undoubtedly he knows what’s happened,” Crepin said, hovering near the door. “He might fear—” He broke off, unwilling to say what he was afraid might happen.

“You may be right,” said Roger with a sigh. “I have some coins you may use.” He reached into one of his capacious pockets and brought out a small purse. “There’s silver and gold in here. There should be enough for a bottle each for the whole troupe and the grooms besides. Use it wisely.” He tossed the purse to Crepin, and heard it clink as Crepin fumbled his catch. “Go on, with my thanks and my master’s.”

Crepin bent to pick up the purse. “You’re very generous. I’ll make sure we drink to Ragoczy’s health.”

Da San-Germain lifted his head. “And justice … Drink to … justice.”

“Yes,” said Crepin, “to justice,” and bolted from the room, slamming the door behind him with unusual force.

When it was clear that Crepin would not return, Roger shoved the driving-box seat under the bathtub, turning it so that it gave the most exposure to the bathtub; when he was satisfied with his efforts, he said, “I thought you’d prefer that I take off your nightshirt after he left, rather than while he was here.”

“You did … well, old friend,” said da San-Germain. He did not battle for air as he had while Crepin was with them, and for a short while as Roger went to get scissors, he stopped breathing altogether while the pain eased a little.

Roger brought the scissors and proceeded to cut the nightshirt off da San-Germain, taking care to keep the pieces of the garment together. He handed da San-Germain a pillow, aware of how much the vampire disliked being seen naked: the massive scar tissue that covered his abdomen from the base of his ribs to his pubis was worrisome to him. “I’ll bring you a drying sheet in a moment.” He paused to look at the wound in the top of his shoulder; it was no longer bleeding, but the blood had not yet clotted completely. “It appears to go straight down.”

“Yes. That’s why it … hurts … to breathe.”

Roger nodded. “You have more wounds than I supposed you had, and worse ones.”

“Enee … was very angry.” Da San-Germain strove to stand up but fell back with a soft cry of frustration. “If you … will lend me … your arm?”

“As soon as I bring you a drying sheet,” said Roger, taking the scissors and the nightshirt away to the armoire, returning at once with the large square of Turkish cotton. Even without the stairs to slow them, it took nearly five minutes to get da San-Germain from the bed to the bathtub and into it, and left Roger with damp cuffs and sleeves. “There. Rest a while, my master. I’m going to get the bandages from the girl in the kitchen, and I’ll use your healing tincture when I return. You have ten wounds that I can see, and there may be more. The sooner they are cleaned and dressed, the more comfortable you will be.”

“At least … my throat wasn’t … cut.” That had happened twelve centuries ago, and it had been several months before he had been able to speak properly.

“Then there’s something to be grateful for,” said Roger.

Da San-Germain waved him away, leaning back in the steaming water, watching it turn from clear to pink to dull-red; though the room was cool, the bath was almost too hot for comfort. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift, turning from Enee to Madelaine and the first time he met her, at the ball in 1743, and all that came after. He had no desire to occupy his mind with cataloguing his injuries; he would do that when Roger returned. The ache that the many thrusts Enee’s knife had inflicted began to lose their intensity; he welcomed the languor that small relief provided, as soothing as the unguent of blue lotus would be for the living.

A sharp knock on the door brought him out of his daze; before he could take in sufficient air to speak, the door opened and Photine surged into the room, her face wet with tears, her robe-de-chambre thrown over her corsage and petticoat, and an air of disarray about her that made da San-Germain sit up and reach for the drying sheet, pulling it across the top of the tub so that only his head, shoulders, and right arm were visible.

“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! How could it come to this?” Photine cried, seeing da San-Germain, and noting the purple gouge on his shoulder. “Then it is true!” She crossed herself and wiped at her streaming eyes with a sodden handkerchief.

“What is true?” he asked her, trying to collect himself.

“You’ve been hurt! Someone has attacked you!” She hurried to the bathtub and knelt beside it, artlessly offering a glimpse of her magnificent bosom. “I can see cuts on your arm and shoulder. How dreadful! That you should be set upon!”

Da San-Germain tried to think of something to say that would not add to her distraught state. “Photine…” he began.

“Crepin told me that Enee did it, but he couldn’t have. He’s incapable of such behavior. He doesn’t like you very much, but he’s a boy—he wouldn’t do anything so … so grievous. I know he wouldn’t.” There was despair in every aspect of her demeanor; she trembled as if about to collapse. “Crepin must be mistaken. It wasn’t Enee, was it?”

“I regret to … to tell you … that it was your … son who … did this,” he said as kindly as he could, and read consternation in the look she shot at him.

“But it couldn’t be,” she insisted. “You must be confused. He wouldn’t do anything so … so reckless. He promised me that he would never bring dishonor upon the troupe, or on me. He’s impulsive, yes, but not deranged.”

“He certainly … seemed that … way when he … came at me,” da San-Germain said, and saw her face crumple as she began to cry in earnest. “It is nothing … against you, Photine … It was his … act, not yours. You … are a devoted mother,… but you’re not … responsible for what he does.”

“But it can’t be, it can’t be that he would do such a thing to you,” she wailed, lifting her head to look at him. “Don’t you understand? Enee is no criminal, he’s just not very wise yet. He gave in to the abandon of youth.”

“I fear the Revo … lutionary Court … will … see it differently.”

Her eyes flashed, tears lending more shine to them. “Why? Because he is not an aristocrat with rich friends to act for him?” She shook her head emphatically. “Why should your relation be saved and Enee abandoned? You can afford to rescue both, can’t you?”

Fatigue and lassitude were growing within him; he would soon slip into the stupor that among his kind passed for sleep, which he abjectly needed. “Photine … can’t we … talk later?”

“Why later? Don’t you know how urgent this state of affairs is? Would you say the same if it were your precious Madelaine who was in danger, and not my son?” she demanded, all supplication gone, her tears vanishing to be replaced by indignation. “The Guards are coming, and my son will be taken to prison. Prison!” she repeated, stamping her foot for emphasis.

“That would … happen whether I … speak to them … or not, or … how many … bribes I … pay.” He could feel a small trail of blood run down his lung, and he coughed, spraying fine red droplets on the drying sheet.

“Only if you tell them he did it! Without that, he cannot be held.” She rose to her feet, a vision of purpose and righteousness. “We are here to remove your relation from prison, yet you will allow my son to be taken there.”

The accusation stung him, but he said quietly, “My relation … has not … stabbed me … repeatedly.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No … myself.”

She folded her arms. “Then you will make a complaint?”

“I need … not. Feo will … and Pascal.”

“You will permit them to turn on my boy? You will encourage them?” She shook her head in splendid defiance. “You could pay them to keep quiet, and explain to the Guards that there was a misunderstanding. Couldn’t you? You could promise that we will be gone from Lyon within the week, and that we will confine Enee until we are ten leagues from the city.”