Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Tags: #Fantasy, #Fantasy Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Horror, #Occult & Supernatural, #Historical Fiction, #Vampires, #Saint-Germain, #Inquisition, #Women Musicians - Crimes Against
States of Grace (23 page)
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 1
st
day of June, 1531
st
day of June, 1531
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?”
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.”
“Yes, I do have other concerns, but not just at present.” He looked up into her face. “What has happened to make you come here?”
“A misfortune—you need not be concerned about it.” She was about to get to her feet when Saint-Germain said, “You came here for a purpose; I am curious to know what that was, and why you have changed your mind.”
She stared up at him, then forced herself to direct her gaze elsewhere. “Oh, dear.” Erneste took the slate-blue edge of the triangular outer sleeve of her vaya and began to pleat the fine-woven sayette between her fingers, pressing hard at the fabric while she strove to regain her composure, and extricate herself from the awkwardness into which she now realized she had plunged herself. With her concentration on her fingers, she said distantly, “It’s my aunt.”
“Aunt Evangeline?” he asked to be certain. “Has anything happened to her?”
She gave a single, tiny nod. “She’s … she’s unwell. I’m worried about her. She needs a physician, you see, and—” Impatiently she wiped her eyes. “I apologize for this most unseemly—”
“Her condition must be serious indeed for you to come here on her behalf, risking gossip,” Saint-Germain interrupted softly, the last of his statement ending on an upward note.
“I fear she may die, she is so lethargic and disoriented,” said Erneste softly, and began to cry, not loudly but with such poignance that he was astonished.
“Deme, Deme, do not—”
“I know she will die. I cannot doubt it,” she said quickly, dropping the sleeve and leaning heavily on the upholstered arm of the settee. “I hoped that she would be well, with good physicians and nursing, but they will not take her in at Saint Anne’s Church, where her cloisters are: they won’t take any of them in.” She wiped her face with trembling fingers. “I asked the Mother Superior to reconsider, for mercy and charity’s sake, but she said she could not, that her hands were tied.”
“And why should they be?” Saint-Germain asked, wondering if Erneste’s association with him might account for such a refusal.
“You recall, sixteen days ago, there was an uprising, mostly of women?” Erneste did not go on.
“The riot about a wool-house in a churchyard?”
Erneste nodded. “Yes; my aunt was with the wool-workers, the women who sought to keep the wool-house. She has encouraged the women in the past, and when needed, she has worked with them, carding and spinning. The women were to have a wool-house of their own: the Guild had given provisional agreement, but then there was trouble, and fighting broke out. During the second assault, my aunt was struck by a cudgel on the head and shoulder and in the body, and she was forced to leave the confrontation. She could not go to any physician, for the Church would not permit physicians to offer their services to an insurrectionist—those who did risked heavy fines.”
“A difficult situation for anyone hurt, I should think,” said Saint-Germain.
She sighed abruptly. “I took her into my rooms, against the wishes of the householder; I paid him extra, and I set about nursing her as best I could, although I am not very adept at such things.”
“I should think you would give excellent care,” said Saint-Germain, and saw her attempt a wobbly smile.
“Thank you, Grav.” She glanced toward the nearest tree of oil-lamps, then back at him. “The night before last, the householder said we must leave, and had all our goods loaded into a cart; he said he would have to pay a fine if we remained under his roof. When I asked him where we were to go, he said it wasn’t his concern, and that so long as we were gone from his house, he would be satisfied.”
“Why did you not send me word of this?” Saint-Germain asked, anticipating the answer.
“I have already imposed too much upon you. Were I not desperate, I would not be here now, but I could think of no one else.” She dabbed the hem of her sleeve at her eyes. “I’m sorry to be so wanting in—”
“Your weeping does not affront me; I am more disturbed that you did not come to me last night,” he said. “Where did you go?”
This time Erneste took four deep breaths before she answered. “There is an inn of sorts near the major warehouses, called The Grey Tern, and it is a place that takes in all comers, if they have money to pay.” She swallowed hard. “I procured a room with a parlor on the third floor for a week—I paid the porters to carry our belongings and my aunt up to the rooms, and bought a special meal for her, so that she would not have to bestir herself.”
“Did you have to leave any belongings behind?” Saint-Germain inquired.
“The householder said he would relinquish them to me when I found suitable housing,” she said, a bit startled by the question.
“Perhaps he will reconsider, and release them to my care, on your behalf,” said Saint-Germain genially enough, but with a purposeful note in his voice. He softened his next query. “How did your aunt fare in this new setting?”
Erneste’s face grew more somber. “For most of yesterday, she seemed to improve. Her fever lessened and her color brightened, and she could walk on her own, if slowly. But by evening, she began vomiting, and the substance of it was brown and thick and ropey.” She put her hand to her mouth as if to stop her own words. “She has lost her balance on three occasions and her thoughts are jumbled and unsteady. When I offered her the medicine I had purchased for her relief, she accused me of trying … to poison her. She struck my hand away, and then she fell on the floor, and refused to get up. I went to Saint Anne’s again on her behalf, and they would do nothing, having been forbidden by the Church to assist any of the rebellious women—that is what they are calling the women now: rebels—and to report any woman with suspicious wounds to the authorities. There are hundreds of such women in the city, denied succor and shelter because of their stand.” She put a hand to her cheek. “Oh, Lord. God forgive me. I shouldn’t have come here. Grav, I apologize for bringing this to you. I didn’t think: you may be accused of giving comfort to the rebel women, and there are fines being imposed for doing that.” As she said this last her weeping grew more extreme. “I don’t know what to do, Grav. I haven’t thought of anything I might do to—”
Ruthger’s tap on the half-open door shocked them both. Saint-Germain rose and turned. “Do come in. I trust you have the wine?”
“I do,” said Ruthger, and added in the dialect of Yang-Chau, “I took the liberty of adding a few drops of your composing tincture. I doubt she’ll taste it.” He handed over the tankard on a small tray, while he continued in Dutch, “The staff are worried. Is there anything you want to tell them?”
“Tell them only that Deme van Amsteljaxter has come to request aid for her aunt, who is badly hurt.”
“That should suffice,” said Ruthger.
Saint-Germain regarded Ruthger thoughtfully. “I think it may be wise to put together a case of medicaments for me. If you will?”
“Certainly. What do you want in the case?” Ruthger watched Saint-Germain hand the tankard to Erneste, then added, “Whom are you treating, and for what malady?”
“I believe Seur Evangeline has sustained inward injuries and is suffering from a severe blow to the head as well. So my sovereign remedy should be included, and tinctures of pansy and of willow, along with a vial of milk-thistle infusion, ground Angelica-root for a tea, and a cup of syrup of poppies in spirits of wine. That should do for a start.” He frowned as he reviewed this in his mind, adding, “Anodyne unguents as well, and a roll of linen bandages.”
Erneste had taken a generous sip of the wine, but she turned to stare in dismay at Saint-Germain’s remark. “Bandages? You are going to bleed her? Because I bled her yesterday, and she seems not to have made a full recovery from it, though she said it did her good.”
“No,” said Saint-Germain, “I will not bleed her, Deme; I doubt it would benefit her to be bled a second time. But her head has been bludgeoned, and her skull may need the protection a bandage may provide. When a head has been struck, often the bones need to be shielded from other hurts.” He disliked having to be less than candid with Erneste, but he knew that at this time candor would be an unkindness and serve no useful purpose.
Erneste sighed. “Oh. Yes. I hadn’t thought of that.” She took a longer draught of the heated wine, saying, “You have put cloves in it. It’s very good.”
Saint-Germain gave a quick, one-sided smile, knowing that Ruthger had found a way to completely disguise the taste of the composer. “I trust it is to your taste, Deme?”
“Oh, yes,” said Erneste, taking another sip to demonstrate her approval; a faint trace of color appeared on her lips.
Ruthger gave a crisp little bow. “Thank you, Deme van Amsteljaxter.” He glanced at Saint-Germain. “Is there anything else, my master, or shall I go to prepare your case?”
“You may go,” said Saint-Germain; Ruthger left the room, taking care to set the door ajar, aware of the implications a closed door would create. “If you have no objections, I will accompany you to see your aunt—after you finish the wine. I hope I may have something among my medicaments that will relieve her suffering.”
“Would you treat her? I know she needs more expert care than mine, and you have some experience of treating wounds, haven’t you?” she asked, her eyes once again filling with tears. She shook her head as if to rid herself of her weeping. “I’m so sorry.”
“You have no reason to be,” Saint-Germain assured her, reaching out to steady the wine-tankard in her hand.
She was silent for a long moment. “If I had thought this through, I wouldn’t have come here. I beg your pardon for—”
“You have nothing for which to apologize, Deme van Amsteljaxter.” He saw that this repeated assurance had not convinced her, so he continued. “In fact I might well have been offended if you had sought out anyone else during this difficult time. I take this as a token of trust, and I thank you for it.”
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