Communion Blood (34 page)

Ragoczy tried not to laugh. “How very.. . useful, for both of them,” he said, feeling his years weigh on him. “If the moon were brighter I would suggest we trot, but tonight that would invite trouble. Keep your mount to a fast walk, as will I. We’ll make the best time that way. There isn’t much farther to go.”

Matyas used his heels and his horse extended his walk. They went some little way in silence, and then Matyas remarked, “She says she wants to see her Confessor.”

“And did she say who that might be? Is there someone specific or will any priest do?” Ragoczy asked. The small cypress grove ended and the two villas stood directly ahead, the new one still empty to the sky; Ragoczy did not need to point his horse toward the stable as one of the guard-dogs began to bark.

“That may be why she wants to talk to you,” said Matyas. He kept his mare moving in spite of the dog.

“Ah,” said Ragoczy as they reached the stable yard. He swung out of the saddle, saying to Matyas, “Ordinarily I would take care of her myself, but tonight, I would count it as a service if you would—” Matyas had already dismounted and now reached for the reins Ragoczy held. “I will see she is fed and brushed and watered. I’ll check her hooves tonight and give them a proper cleaning in the morning, with the turpentine dressing.”

“You’re very good,” said Ragoczy, relinquishing the reins and starting toward the kitchen door. He became aware of a plaintive melody—Maurizio was playing one of the old troubadours’ songs Ragoczy had given him to practice on; his style was more flamboyant than anything the troubadors had done, but his expertise was impressive to hear.

“My master,” said Rugerius as he opened the kitchen door. “I had not hoped to see you so quickly.”

Ragoczy strode past him into the kitchen, removing his hat as he went, and handing it to Rugerius; the cook glanced up from the chicken he was basting with olive oil, basil, and garlic, his brows raised in surprise at the haste with which Ragoczy went through the kitchen. “Matyas found me on the road. Niklos was bound for Roma and I wanted to return before it was so late that everyone here would be

asleep.” He was almost into the corridor. “I assume Maurizio has some excellent reason not to have returned to Senza Pari tonight.” His tone was gently ironic.

“That he does,” said Rugerius, catching Ragoczy’s inflection precisely. “His horse cast a shoe, and the farrier will have to attend to it in the morning.”

“And no doubt the leg in question is being poulticed, for safety?” Ragoczy suggested.

“Certainly,” said Rugerius, the humor in his faded-blue eyes belying his stem demeanor.

“Very good,” said Ragoczy, continuing down the corridor. “Where is Maurizio?”

“I put him in the antechamber off the main reception room; the one at the back, overlooking the old fountains—you know the one.” He slowed his pace as he reached the door to the library. “The maid is with her, of course.”

“Of course,” said Ragoczy.

“She may say more than we want to her brother,” Rugerius cautioned him.

“Old friend, why else is she here but to be eyes and ears for Bonaldo Fiumara? I have known from the moment he suggested she become our penitent guest’s maid that he wanted more than safeguarding the young woman’s reputation.” His smile was tinged with weariness. “You had better tell her I have returned and for our guest to ready herself. I’ll have a word or two with Maurizio while you do.”

[ He put one small hand on Rugerius’ shoulder. “Thank you for all this.”

Rugerius nodded his acknowledgment; he turned down the hall, then stopped. “I cannot think how you will want to deal with all this.”

“Nor can I, not until I know what our guest wants,” Ragoczy paused thoughtfully. “Given what has gone before, I would be glad of candor.” He managed a one-sided smile. “Go on. We will talk later.”

“Very good,” said Rugerius, and continued on his way.

Maurizio was so engrossed in “Jherusalem, Grant Damage me

Fais” that he did not notice Ragoczy until he said, “You play that very well, if a litde too quickly.”

“It is an interesting work,” he said, his face and neck reddening. “It is very old, I think.”

“Yes, it is. But perhaps, just at present,” said Ragoczy kindly, “you might like to give our Penitent Guest a little silence. Perhaps you would like a rest, as well; you have been playing a long time. You are probably hungry. The cook will have something in the kitchen for you, no doubt: he was preparing chicken as I came in.” He kept his demeanor as cordial as possible.

“I am a bit hungry,” Maurizio conceded. “But I do not like to leave her.”

“You leave her most evenings when you return to Senza Pari. What you do now is an added gift.” He managed a wry smile. “She will not mind if you eat.”

“She is all alone,” said Maurizio, obediently lowering his bow and taking his violin from his neck; the callus on his skin there was brighter than his face.

“And surely you know what that is like,” Ragoczy agreed. “But she will not be devastated if you interrupt your playing for a meal. After all, she has had supper by now, and her maid is with her. And usually you are back at Senza Pari by this hour.”

“I can explain about that,” said Maurizio hastily as he put his violin in its case; the color in his neck and cheeks was more revealing than his assurance.

“The trouble with your horse,” said Ragoczy with a gesture of dismissal. “And you did not want to borrow one of my horses for fear it should also suffer an injury. I do understand.” His faint amusement was masked by his urbane manner. “We will discuss that later, when you have eaten and I have had a word with our guest.”

Something flared in Maurizio’s eyes which Ragoczy knew was jealousy. “Of course,” he said tightly, doing his best to emulate Ragoczy’s correctness. He loosened his bow and laid it in the open case.

“If you want to play after you have dined, do so,” Ragoczy offered, making no attempt to criticize him. “Little as you may think it, I have no wish to silence you: I am pleased to hear you practice so diligently.”

Maurizio knew his posturing was foolish but he could not bring himself to abandon his aggravation. “You are master here.”

“Yes; I am.” Ragoczy made a leg and left the young man alone. He went along toward the room given to Leocadia; he brushed his riding coat in case any dust clung to it, touched his wig, and prepared to enter the room. He scratched at the door. “Signorina?”

The maid, Clarice Fiumara, came at once to open the door. “Signor Conte. Come in. The Penitent has been asking for you.” Ragoczy stepped into the room, moving cautiously, and saw Leocadia kneeling beside her bed, dressed in a long nightrail of cream- colored linen with a grey lawn shawl around her shoulders for modesty, and to keep from shivering in the warm night. She was thin to gauntness, her collarbones standing out enough to make sharp shadows; her skin starkly pale and her dark hair lusterless and lank, as if she had crowned herself with darkness; there were blurs livid as bruises under her eyes and her lips were chapped. He stood as far away from her as the room would allow. “Good evening, my Guest.” She looked up, her face unnaturally composed. “Good evening, Conte.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and she did not meet his dark eyes.

In the short silence that followed, the maid coughed an encouragement to Leocadia.

“You wished to see me?” Ragoczy suggested when Leocadia said nothing more.

“She has been asking for you some time,” said Clarice; Ragoczy wondered how much of what she heard was reported to her builder- brother.

“Yes,” Leocadia said, and went still again. When he did not prompt her to speak, she sighed. “I must see my Confessor.”

“I will send to San Procopio for a priest; it is the nearest church,” Ragoczy offered at once, startled that she would make so unremarkable a request of him. “Any of the servants would have fetched one for you.”

“No. No. My Confessor is at Santissimo Redentore in Roma; his name is Padre Bartolomeo Battista Tredori. He has been my Confessor since I came to Roma with my brother, nine years ago.” Her voice fell to a whisper as her eyes looked into the distance.

“And you would like Padre Tredori to be brought here,” said Ra- goczy quietly, taking his tone from hers.

“Yes. If you would.” She looked up at him with an emotion in her eyes that Ragoczy found troubling. “Tell him he is not to tell anyone, not
anyone
that he knows anything of me.”

“I will tiy to do as you wish, but to bring him out of the city, I must tell him who has need of him, so that he will not think you have summoned him idly, or in contempt for any other priest.” He spoke gently, his voice low and musical.

“Oh, no,” she said in despair. “Can you not tell him I am a sincere penitent?”

“Certainly he will want to know why he, of all priests, has been summoned. He will have to tell his superior of his mission. And he will ask who you are. You must know this request is unusual, and he will need more than my assurance of your purpose.” Ragoczy paused and went on very carefully. “If I tell him no name, he will assume you are my mistress: is that what you want?”

Leocadia crossed herself. “No. Not that.”

“Dio mi salva,” whispered Clarice, crossing herself. “What a dreadful thought, when you have been at such pains—” She turned away as if to avert scandal.

“Then you will have to tell me who you are and rely upon my discretion to keep your secret,” said Ragoczy with all the kindness he could offer without moving closer to her.

She began to shake and Clarice bustled toward her, clicking her tongue in concern. “Signorina, te prego ... be calm.”

“I am calm,” said Leocadia, her eyes bright with anger, which faded as abruptiy as it had appeared. “I beg your pardon. I am behaving disgracefully, Signor’ Conte. I did not mean any... any... anything.” She was out of breath and the veins in her neck showed how rapid her heartbeat had become.

“I did not think you did,” Ragoczy said, soothing her as best he could. “You are not one to injure those who do not harm you, are you.”

She began to weep. “Signor Conte, I cannot tell you more. It would be more ... disgraceful.”

Clarice took a shocked breath, and held her breath to listen. “Nothing you could tell me would disgrace you, Signorina. But if I am to help you as you ask, I must know more.”

“No. I cannot. I cannot.” She shook her head and began to rock herself.

Watching her, Ragoczy decided to take a chance. Keeping his voice steady and tranquil, he told her, “You have no reason to fear your brother will find you if you do not wish it. He and all the Cardinals are still sequestered.”

Leocadia clapped her hands to her face as she turned toward him. “You
know?”
She saw him nod. “Por Dios, how long have you known?” she pleaded in Spanish.

Ragoczy answered her in that language. “From the first. You may not recall that we met at II Meglio, the Colonna palazzo in Roma?” Mutely she nodded, lowering her hands and waving her nurse back. “Yes,” she said. “I remember.” She once again spoke in Italian. “You told no one?”

“You did not tell
me,”
Ragoczy said.

“Not even Martin?” she asked in astonishment. “You have kept this from him, though he is a Cardinal?”

With a little shriek, Clarice threw up her hands and began, very softly, to pray.

“Why should I trespass on your privacy? You gave me no name when you came here, asking only for what sanctuary I could provide. I have done that, and I will serve you further if you will permit.” He studied her face for a short while. “Signorina Calaveria y Vacamonte, you have nothing to fear from me.”

“I have everything to fear from you,” she countered in sudden vehemence. “You might command me anything: now that you know.” “But I have known from the start,” Ragoczy said serenely, trying to communicate a portion of his composure to her. “I have not violated the trust you have reposed in me. Why should I do so now?— nothing has changed.”

Her face might have been carved in marble, having no expression whatsoever. “You have done all that is honorable, all that is charitable. You are a most compassionate man,” she conceded, her admission

made grudgingly and with a hint of condescension. “But it is no longer the same, since you know.”

“It may be for you; it is the same for me,” said Ragoczy, wanting to assuage the dejection that had claimed her.

“No, no, no, no,” she said as automatically as she had recited her penitential Psalms as she flagellated herself.

“Signorina!” Clarice exclaimed, going to Leocadia’s side and bending down to hold her for solace.

Leocadia pulled out of Clarice’s awkward embrace. “You will say nothing—
nothing
—to my brother, either one. They are not to know where I am. And say nothing to his servants; they will tell in an instant. Say nothing,” she ordered emphatically. “You must promise you will say nothing.”

Ragoczy bowed slightly. “You have my Word, Signorina.”

“You will not tell them?” Leocadia demanded, doubt turning this to a question.

“Of course not: I have given you my Word,” Ragoczy assured her, seeing how fragile she was under her attempt at imperiousness. “I will speak to Padre Tredori privately, and all you may tell him will be under Seal. No one will say anything you do not wish.” He gave Clarice a stem look.

Clarice returned it. “I know how to keep my tongue in my head, Signor’ Conte. Bonaldo will leam nothing of this from me.”

“I was maladroit to think you might,” Ragoczy said by way of apology. He paused, regarding Leocadia with concern. “If you are so concerned about keeping your presence unknown, you may want to reconsider. Padre Sergio Barzini is from San Procopio, and he will hear your Confession.”

She shook her head many times. “No. Padre Tredori: it must be Padre Tredori.” Beneath her ire there was dread. “Bring him and no other.”

Ragoczy made a leg. “As you wish, Signorina. Will tomorrow morning be soon enough, or do you want me to fetch him tonight? There will be less notice and fewer questions in the morning.”

“You are mocking me, Signor’ Conte,” Leocadia said, pulling her shawl tighdy around her shoulders and looking to Clarice for support.