Communion Blood (48 page)

“And was it? the same?” The warmth in his gaze was tinged with amusement.

She stretched, lithe as a cat, “It was
better.”
Catching his hands in hers, she smiled up at him. “You smell of me.”

“I taste of you, too, dolcina,” he responded gently. “You have become part of me. You will always be part of me.”

The frown was back. “Is that because you...” Before he could speak she shook her head, her frown deepening. “No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know anything that could be compromising when I Confess.”

A thousand years ago he might have insisted she tell him why: now he only nodded slowly. “If that is what you wish.”

“It is,” she said, and attempted a light-hearted giggle which caught in her throat. “I’m sorry, Conte. But it would be so difficult...” “For both of us, no doubt,” he agreed. “Yes, dolcina, you are right.” How this concession tore at him, the certainty that knowledge of his true nature would be as deadly to her as it would be to him, filled him with a chagrin he had not realized he possessed. He bent and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Never mind. You and I must make the most of what we can have together: mustn’t we?”

“Yes; oh, yes.” She ducked her head against his shoulder. “I am so sorry that... that I cannot.. .”

“Never mind,” he repeated, his arms around her now for comfort. “You have two little sons whom you must guard. In your place I should probably do the same thing.”

“Would you?” She leaned back and studied him, her expression changing to a defensive one. “Tell me, did you grow bored, waiting for me to deliver, and did you have your way with that penitent? Did you grow tired of being alone, and—”

“No,” said Ragoczy, quietly, gently, but with such conviction that she could not doubt him.

“I have no right to be jealous, of course,” she went on, trying to amend the blunder she had just made. “I am married, and we can never be more than we are now.”

“I’ve understood that from the first,” Ragoczy reminded her, no touch of blame in his demeanor. “If you had been unwilling to come back to me, I would not have held it against you. I have learned that only those who are willing can be loved.” There was a distant look in his eyes, and an unfathomable sadness.

“Oh, no, no, no.” There was a timorous quiver in her voice; an instant later she began to weep. “Conte. Conte. Do not be angry with me.”

“Angry with you?” he echoed. “Why should I be?” His concern was more than she could bear; he was struck again with how ephemeral joy was and how enduring pain could be, and this realization reawoke his private anguish which he sought to assuage by consoling her.

“Giorgianna, I have no reason to be angry, believe this.” He saw she was made more miserable by his compassion, so fell silent to allow her to speak.

“Then you should. Because I’m spoiling this,” she sobbed, struggling to break free of his embrace. “It’s all going to be lost.”

Ragoczy drew her toward him, comforting her. “Dolcina, do not. You could not diminish anything we have had if you wished to; no matter what comes, it will not change what we have now,” he said as he soothed her, and all the while, Laurenzo’s lyric of two hundred years ago rang in his mind:
Chi vuoV esser lieto, sia;
/
Di doman non ch’e certezza
—Who wishes to be merry, be so; / Of tomorrow there is no certainty.

Text of a letter from Padre Bartolomeo Battista Tredori to the Holy Office of the Faith, Via Sacra, Roma.

To the most esteemed, most truly reverend holy Fathers, the obedient greetings of this most humble, troubled priest, with my fervent prayer that God, Who guides us in all things, will show me Grace and Wisdom in my answers to your questions. Amen.

First, I must report that I have seen the young woman you seek but once since the shocking death of her brother. That was perhaps a day after that hideous act. There were scandals whispered all over the city, and the Guardia Laterano was out in force, making inquiries on behalf of Sua Santita,for it was feared that an attack on a Cardinal might well portend more outrageous assaults. The young woman came to my church in the company of her half-brother, who is simple and lacks clear sight. How often we see the Hand of God laid heavily on those already afflicted. He had the care of his sister, and as diligently as he could he attended to his duty, bringing her to me so that she might Confess.

Second, I fear all that she said to me is under the Seal of Confession, but I will tell you that in my judgment, whatever it was she witnessed must have unhinged her reason, for she made such accusations against her martyred brother as could not be heard without disgust and revulsion. All men sin, for we are the children of sin, but those of known worthiness, who have vowed to keep from sin, as the

Princes of the Church must, could not do such things as this deranged woman uttered. I gave her penance for lies and prayers for the soul of her slain brother, and entrusted her once more to Jose Bruno. I told him that his sister was overwrought and would need some time for meditation and reflection before the balance of her mind was restored and her soul could be cleansed of all guilt and grief. I warned him that it would be best if she were encouraged not to speak of the things she had Confessed, for in time, she would come to be ashamed that she spoke so, whether in her turbulent state she may now believe it.

Third, I encouraged the two to return to Spain if at all possible, for I could not countenance her marriage after her brother’s murder, particularly given her state of mind. Jose Bruno told me he had money enough to keep them reasonably well, and said that he had a friend who would help them to leave Roma without any greater upset than what they had already suffered. He pleaded with me to say nothing of this to Ursellos, their older brother, for the young woman unaccountably holds him in fear, for which I cannot account. I agreed that I would offer no information, but added that I could not lie for her or anyone. Jose Bruno said he was content with that, and left a donation before he and his sister departed.

Fourth, I know nothing of the friend Jose Bruno mentioned: the name of the friend was carefully avoided, 1 have supposed not to tempt me into the sin of prevarication if I was questioned. There was no indication of the friend’s age or rank or gender—nothing that would hint at the friend’s identity, or where that friend might abide. My own suspicions are only that: suspicions. But I cannot help but recall when last the young woman absented herself from her brother’s house she took refuge with the foreigner, Ferenc Ragoczy, Conte da San-Germain, at his estate, the Villa Vecchia to the north and east of the city, and that having found sanctuary there before she might well find it there again. It is incumbent upon me to say that it may be that he is the friend to whom Jose Bruno referred. I have no confirmation of this, but it does strike me that if he would shelter her once, he might well do so again. If I have erred in this assumption, may God forgive me for creating suspicions of a guiltless man.

Fifth, I have no doubt that the killing of the Cardinal is a twice- damned act, and that his blood, shed so mercilessly, has brought him a crown in Heaven. Any suggestion of improper conduct in regard to Sua Eminenza must be laid to the rancor of the Germans who had so many hopes riding on their association with him. I, for one, believe that it suited Archbishop Walmund’s purposes very well to have the wedding of his brother to the Cardinal’s sister postponed, for it is known that the Archbishop’s brother has been in the care of physicians in order to restore his manhood which the curse of syphilis has so cruelly blighted; until the Archbishop’s brother is whole and capable again, any marriage would be unconsummatable and therefore invalid in the eyes of God and the Church, which the Archbishop must not want. That it is being bandied about by certain unscrupulous persons that the Cardinal was all but whoring his sister to the Germans to further his own worldly schemes is a calumny not to be borne, and I ask you, Good Fathers, to undertake what acts you deem appropriate to silence all such malicious speculations. Women must marry, and if they can marry to the advantage of their families, it is their duty to do so, as Scripture teaches us.

I am ever conformable to the Will of God and His Church, and stand prepared to present myself to you, most holy Fathers, whenever you should advise me that such is your wish. As you do, I grieve for the loss of so exemplary a Cardinal as Martin, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte, and I pray diligently for his soul, as I pray for the souls of all good Christians.

Your most submissive and devoted servant Padre Bartolomeo Battista Tredori Santissimo Redentore

In Roma, on the Feast of San Marco, the 25th day of April, 1690

/

Deo Gratias

Blossoms blurred to smears of color in the soft rain; the gardens were coming into their full glory as Ettore Colonna led Ragoczy down the same path they had trod in the past; the exuberance of spring was all around them in spite of the mizzle. Although it was just past noon it was cool but not truly cold, and both men wore cloaks, as much to stay dry as to keep warm. “It was good of you to come, Conte,” said his host as they stopped between two beds of roses.

“How could I not?” Ragoczy countered, his expression cordial. “It strikes me that you and I are long overdue to talk.”

Ettore Colonna nodded. “Of course. You are concerned about this development with Maurizio.”

“If it were only Maurizio,” said Ragoczy, smiling a little. “You know as well as I, that is just the beginning.” He bent to sniff one of the blooms, the scent of it reminding him of Giorgianna’s perfume.

“That it is,” said Ettore Colonna. “I may have put us all at a disadvantage; I pray not, but it is possible. If I have, I offer you my deepest apology. I could not sit by, doing nothing: I know what it is to have the might of the Church marshaled against you, and I could not leave those poor, hapless—” He cut himself off. “I took them in. And now I rely on you to find a way to get them out.”

“I hope I am flattered?” Ragoczy said quizzically. “It will not be easy. I know you are aware of that.” If he had learned nothing else in the last millennium, he had learned that the arm of the Church was long, and that it had more than one weapon in its grasp.

“Oh, yes: none better.” The comers of his mouth turned up, but it was not a smile he showed his guest. “Yet I must make some effort—and so must you—or I will be in disgrace with myself until I explain myself to God—assuming I’ll need to.”

Ragoczy cocked his head. “Do you think that will be necessary?” “Not if God is as omnipotent and omniscient as the Church insists He is,” said Ettore Colonna, his tone tinted with sarcasm. “Even

when I was very young, I wondered how God could be so all-loving and all-understanding and yet be such a petty tyrant, granting favor and misfortune with the caprice of a madman. Nothing I’ve seen since has changed my mind in that regard.” He nodded in the direction of an ornate gate. “There’s a belvedere at the far side of the ornamental lake. You’ve never seen it before, I think?”

“No, not that I can recall,” said Ragoc
2
y, wondering where Ettore Colonna was leading him—for surely he was leading him just as if he had taken him by the hand “And a belvedere by a lake in the rain must be most—”

“—damp,” Ettore Colonna finished for him. “It couldn’t be helped, my friend. Something has to be arranged, and this has been our first opportunity. We must make the most of it, inclement weather or not.” He had reached the gate, opened its lock with a key, and swung it open on complaining hinges. “I find the sound provides an excellent warning; no one can open it without this metallic braying. It is only oiled once a year.” Stepping aside, he bowed Ragoc
2
y through it. “Just keep on the path. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Very good,” said Ragoczy, following the instructions he had been given. “When was this built?”

“About eighty years ago, when the villa was enlarged,” said Ettore Colonna. “The original plans were more lavish, but my great-great- great-uncle ran out of money before the whole of his vision could be realized. He had wanted to put up a kind of village, but the cost was outrageous.”

Thinking what he was paying for his new villa, Ragoczy could only say, “I am not surprised.”

“That’s right,” said Ettore Colonna. “You have to deal with the Artei, don’t you? They’re most demanding. Particularly where foreigners are concerned.” He pointed to an artlessly placed bed of rare irises. “Old Tancredi was one of the first to import these varieties from the Lowlands. Of course, the religious situation wasn’t so convoluted then as it is now, and no one took exception to his planting them so near Roma; if you did it today there would be an uproar. Still, we were lucky, for once the Lowlands became troublesome,

cousin Giuliano had been made Jules Mazarin and was Minister of France and so the bed could be left as it is without occasioning criticism.” He indicated a fork in the path ahead. “Bear to the left.” Ragoczy did as he was told; he was enjoying the garden, thinking the misty rain enhanced it, sharpening the smells even as it smudged the colors. “Did you choose this place for its unapproachability?”

“In part; no one can come upon us by accident,” said Ettore Co- lonna. “I believe it will be wise of us to take as much care as possible when we approach the belvedere. I don’t think we are being watched in this weather, but prudence is advisable. We do not want to make it appear that going there is anything more than a whim.”

“What makes you so veiy cautious, my friend?” Ragoczy inquired. “I should think that you could be reasonably safe on your own property.” He knew better, of course; his own household was filled with servants more eager to show themselves loyal to the Pope than to their foreign employer.

Ettore Colonna sighed. “I would like to be as reasonable as you are, and look upon all these precautions as nothing more than an overanxious mind. But I fear that ever since Celestino was killed, I’ve not been able to forget how easily that happened.” He inadvertently splashed himself with mud as he took a hasty step, landing in a puddle Ragoczy had just managed to avoid. “There are too many men in Roma who believe it would bring them credit with God and the Church if they should hit upon some means of disgracing me so that my family could not protect me.”