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 (30 page)
“Gondolieri are a superstitious lot,” Leoncio said to himself as he stepped away from the landing. Sauntering in an unconcerned manner, Leoncio moved along the narrow walkway that led behind Santi Apostoli to a cluster of buildings near the bridge on his right. Two of the houses were simply what they appeared to be, but the one immediately next to the tavern was something less than a casetta and more than an inn: this was a house of assignation, clandestine and discreet; it was called Le Rose, both for the flower of secrecy and the climbing brambles that went up the walls of the hostelry. Leoncio entered the iron-work gate and stepped into a minuscule courtyard that still carried the perfume of flowers although most of the blooms were spent. Here he was met by an unctuous landlord, who bowed several times and began a long recitation of compliments that Leoncio cut off curtly. “Yes, yes. I am here to see someone.”
“Of course, signor’, of course,” said the landlord, Benedetto Maggier, all but rubbing his hands. “That is one of the purposes of this establishment—to provide a discreet place for private encounters, or for negotiations for uncommon goods. Le Rose is a place for all manner of meetings. Whom did you wish to see?”
Leoncio coughed delicately. “You have a guest—an unofficial guest, as I understand it—a man whose name is not to be mentioned, but who has been here three days; a man who has good reason to keep his presence secret. He is known to be a gamester, and—”
The landlord held up one soft, long hand. “Alas, the man you are seeking is no longer here.”
“Not here?” Leoncio did his best not to reveal his annoyance. “That is unfortunate, for I have come with money he is owed.”
“That is unfortunate,” echoed the landlord.
“Do you expect him to return? Did he mention if he would be back?” Leoncio could feel cold panic rising in him; if he failed to run Emerenzio to ground, he would lose more than money, and he was unwilling to give up his way of life for the sake of one miscreant’s treachery.
“The guest did not inform me; he departed with three men bound for Murano, or so one of them declared.” He bowed again, more deeply.
“Murano—how very traditional,” said Leoncio: Murano was one of the first-settled islands of Venezia, and some distance from the main part of the city now—famed for its glass-makers, Murano was used by smugglers to avoid taxation on such things as water and wine, fresh vegetables and flour; slaves and runaway sailors took refuge there as well as escaped criminals who could afford to bear the expense of such surreptitious flight.
“He said he was going to the home of his niece,” the landlord offered at his most obsequious.
“Oh, yes—Bellanor,” Leoncio improvised glibly. “I had forgot about her.”
“That is the one,” the landlord said, capping Leoncio’s lie with his own. “Bellafior.”
“Then I suppose I must seek him at Bellafior’s house,” said Leoncio, and handed the landlord his last Foscari, thinking as he did that wherever Emerenzio had gone—if he had gone at all—it was not to Murano. “I thank you.”
“You are truly welcome,” the landlord assured him, bowing again before retreating into the interior of the house.
Leoncio did not linger, for he feared he was being observed, and that his inquiries might be noted by those who would use them against him. As obsequious as Benedetto Maggier had been, Leoncio knew he had lied, and that worried him. Deciding that most of Venezia was at table for prandium, he made up his mind to leave while there were few people on the canals and walkways, and his business here could go unnoticed. He satisfied himself that no one was immediately outside Le Rose, then eased out of the courtyard. As he closed the iron gate, he noticed a small boat drawn up beneath the foot-bridge; he slipped into the shadow of Le Rose, prepared to listen, if the boatman turned out to have something useful to impart, and to observe. That the boatman might merely be sheltering from sun and wind did not occur to Leoncio, for there were more comfortable places to do that, and there was no need for such a surreptitious act. So he waited for a quarter of an hour, to be certain the boatman was alone, and then made his way to the edge of the bridge, and called out, “You there!”
The boatman swung around sharply, revealing a pockmarked face and a missing ear. “You want me?” He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and a wedge of cheese laid out on an old piece of linen.
The sight of this ordinary repast calmed Leoncio. “Yes, boatman, I do,” he said, moving a little closer. “I have some questions to ask you. I will pay you well for honest answers.”
“Ask as you want,” said the boatman; his voice was flat and his accent was that of Grado, to the east.
“Perhaps I should come down to your boat? We could speak more privately, and—”
“—we would not be easily observed,” the boatman finished for him. “Come ahead if you must.”
“Very good of you,” Leoncio said as he climbed down beneath the bridge.
“You have something you want of me,” said the boatman, a cynical light to his lopsided smile. “Tell me what you are looking for, and what you are willing to pay, and I will tell you if I can assist you.”
“I am searching for a man and a woman. They are not together, and the man is the more urgent matter,” said Leoncio as he got into the boat. “If you can help me find the man by this time tomorrow, I will give you four ducats for your help.” He hated offering so much, but he wanted to convince the boatman that he was serious in his pursuit.
“A fair sum. The man must be a desperate rogue,” said the boatman, rasping the stubble on his jaw with his thumbnail.
“He has absconded with—” Leoncio suddenly realized he might be inciting more greed in the boatman if he said too much, so he finished lamely, “—with the funds from a foreign merchant’s voyage.”
“A shabby thing to do,” said the boatman, setting his oars in the oarlocks and beginning to row. “Such things give Venezia a bad name in the world.”
“I have been sent to find him, so he may be brought to court,” said Leoncio, hoping to impress the boatman.
“Then you may ask what you like.” He was a short distance from the bridge by now, moving slowly but steadily toward the lagoon. “If you find my information useful, you may pay me when you have secured that criminal you seek.”
Watching the blank-faced buildings, Leoncio had a moment of panic. “Where are we going?”
“We are going where we cannot be overheard,” said the boatman. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Text of a letter from Ulrico Baradin in Venezia to Franzicco Ragoczy, il Conte di Santo-Germano, Campo San Luca, Venezia; carried by footman and delivered the day it was written.
To the most esteemed Conte di Santo-Germano, Franzicco Ragoczy, the greetings of Ulrico Baradin, broker of paper and inks in the Repubblica Veneziana:
I have your order and the orders from Giovanni Boromeo, and I am just about to receive three pallets of paper, each pallet holding four hundred eighty-eight sheets each, of fine-grain heavy stock, rag-based, all sheets suitable for quartering. If you are willing to authorize the purchase, I will need ten ducats to secure the paper, and another ten upon delivery, to cover not only the cost of the paper itself, but to pay my commission for the work I have done. I will accept the equivalent amount in other coinage-florins are acceptable, and reals-should your coffers not be full at this time. Also, I am about to bid on another six pallets of similar weight and content, and sheets twenty percent larger, if this order may be of any interest to you. I will need to have your answer in five days, and your deposit of twelve ducats.
In addition, I have found a supplier of ink that is especially high quality: the density is excellent, and it does not bleed through the paper in spite of its density. The characters it prints are sharply delineated, and it resists smudging once dry. The ink is available in black, red, and an intense blue, all of which may prove useful to Signor’ Boromeo, and which I have already demonstrated to him, to show its worth for all of you.
It may be that the inks will not be available next year, for they are made near Zurich and the maker has warned me that he has been informed that he is not to sell to Catholics or to Catholic countries, for fear that what they publish may not be used to the benefit of Protestants. This man has given me his word that he will honor orders placed before All Saint’s, but he cannot vouch for his inks being available after Christmas, at least not to Venezia. If you have some means of purchasing inks in Protestant regions and having them brought here, I not only urge you to take advantage of them, I ask you to make such buying arrangements available to me, in return for which I will halve my commission from you.
If you are uninterested in the ink or the paper, please send me answer by my messenger so that I may notify my other clients that these lots are available. Your patronage has been so constant and so generous that I have offered these to you before telling anyone else about them. With summer coming to an end, and the autumn storms about to begin, you will want to have a good supply of paper and ink on hand; you do not want to have a slack winter for lack of supplies, I am certain.
Let me assure you that this offer is accurate and genuine—I am not as gullible as I have sometimes been in the past, and I have been at pains to ensure that my goods are of the quality described, so you may be confident that you will get full value for money. I will not be satisfied with inferior products, and I do not ask any of my clients to be so.
With every surety of my continued dedication to your work
And with grateful respect,
Ulrico Baradin
factor and broker in papers and inks
At Venezia, on the 18
th
day of August, 1531
th
day of August, 1531
“But the man is a respectable widower,” Pier-Ariana’s cousin Marcantonio Rosseli said to her over the dining table. “With my father dead these ten months, I am mindful of my duty to take you in, since you are not sponsored by your patron any longer—more’s the pity that his business should fail so terribly, and he be gone—yet you have some money to contribute here from the house you have claim to in Venezia, but I will not allow you to remain here forever—I cannot. You have a duty to your family to wed—at last. Cornelio Paschetti is an honorable man, Cugina, with sufficient money to keep you well enough; he is the best instrument-maker in Verona, and his work is praised everywhere. You would be an asset to him, as a musician.” He sat back, the force of his emotion making color rise in his face. “Your mother would expect you to make the most of this offer, if she were still alive.”
Pier-Ariana sat very still on the women’s side of the table; her face was pale and her mouth was hardly more than a thin line. She felt her cousin’s wife nudge her in the side, and realized she had to say something. “I know you mean well by me, Cugin’, and I am deeply grateful to you for taking me in, but until I know how matters stand with the Conte, I cannot make such a decision as you ask of me, not without careful consideration, and a better acquaintance with Signor’ Paschetti.”
“He will come to visit here if I tell him he is welcome,” said Marcantonio. “You will not have to decide without knowing something about the man.”
“And if I should say I would rather not receive him, what then? Would you decide to require me to accept his suit?” asked Pier-Ariana, moving her hands under the table so Marcantonio would not see them tremble. “Is my willingness to be courted a condition of my continuing welcome in your house?”
The five other women on their side of the table flinched at Pier-Ariana’s challenge, his mother-in-law, Tiberia, going so far as to cross herself at such temerity; Marcantonio’s oldest step-daughter blushed deeply and looked across the room as if to vanish from the meal.
“No, no, of course not,” said Marcantonio, but added fretfully, “But unless you want to be known as a woman of questionable character, you had better encourage the attentions of a well-respected man. Otherwise you will risk gaining such repute as no man would be likely to—”
“To what?” Pier-Ariana waited for a long moment. “Well?”
“You have been in Verona more than two months,” said Marcantonio bluntly. “If you plan to return to Venezia, you would do well to leave before the end of September, when the weather changes, and so you can make plans for the winter.”
“I haven’t made up my mind, Cugin’,” said Pier-Ariana with more firmness than before. “If you would rather I go elsewhere—”
“No, no,” said Marcantonio. “I won’t have it be said that I turned out a relative in distress, and a good Catholic.”
“For the sake of my late mother,” said Pier-Ariana, “and the two ducats I provide every month.” It was the entire amount she received from the Pisan merchant currently residing in the house di Santo-Germano had taken for her, and she paid it reluctantly, for it was the only money she had in the world.
Marcantonio glowered in Pier-Ariana’s direction. “If you will not listen to me, then speak to my wife: Serafina is a sensible and worthy woman, whose grasp of such matters is admirable. Since you do not seem to apprehend the perils of your situation, she will explain your circumstances more effectively than I can, and why Cornelio Paschetti has been most generous in his offer.” He smiled at Serafina. “She understands how such things must work.”
“Because she, as a widow, needed support for herself, her mother, and her children, and so married you?” Pier-Ariana inquired.
Serafina’s smile did not reach her eyes. “You and I should talk, Pier-Ariana,” she said, with a quick glance at her three daughters: the scarlet-cheeked Giacinta, the deliberately preoccupied Feriga, and the sweet-featured Orsola.
“If you insist,” said Pier-Ariana, and rounded on her cousin. “If you will excuse me, Cugino, I will leave the table.” She got to her feet and stepped away from the table. “I find I have lost my appetite.”
“Pier-Ariana—no,” said Serafina. “You mustn’t—”
But Pier-Ariana was halfway to the door, and she would not look around. As she closed the door behind her, she heard excited conversation erupt among the remaining diners. She resisted the urge to pause and listen, making for her rooms at the rear of the house. As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from crying. Once in her bedchamber, she gave vent to the turbulent emotions gripping her, but her tears carried with them no release or anodyne solace. She mourned her music, her life in Venezia, her time with di Santo-Germano, her heartache so intense that she could barely breathe. By the time she wiped her eyes, she was in a more desolate state of mind than before she had left the dining table.
In an effort to restore her equilibrium she reached for her virginals and began to play; the melody that wove itself through her fingers was plaintive and sad, turning her thoughts more forlorn than they had been. She stopped her music in mid-phrase and, instead of trying another tune, rose and went to the small window on the east side of the room, where she looked out at the small kitchen garden below. Some little distance beyond the garden wall, she could see the curve of the walls of the old amphitheatre, built long ago by the Romans, rising over this quarter of Verona, and the tall spire on the Capella di Santa Pomona, said to have been a pagan temple before it was a church. Other buildings claimed her attention as the day waned, a distraction from her misery. She remained there until the night faded all the details from soft grays to deep, ill-defined shadows. Returning to her virginals, she lit three oil-lamps using flint-and-steel, and finally resumed playing, carried by her despondency at the bleak outlook presented to her.
As the family came up from the ground floor to go to bed, a tap on Pier-Ariana’s door announced the arrival of Serafina. “Pier-Ariana, you and I must talk.”
Tempted though she was to send Marcantonio’s wife away, Pier-Ariana sighed and called out, “Come in, Serafina.”
Needing no more invitation than that, Serafina entered the room, a candle in her hand to show that this was to be an important discussion. “I heard you playing. We all did.”
“Thank you,” said Pier-Ariana, closing the virginals in case Serafina’s remark was not a compliment.
“My husband has asked me to speak with you,” Serafina began.
“I am aware of it,” said Pier-Ariana.
“Then you must also know what he expects me to say,” Serafina said, pulling herself up with all the dignity she could summon.
“He expects you to advise me,” said Pier-Ariana with the semblance of humility. “You are here to do his bidding—along his recommendation.”
“His and mine are one,” said Serafina.
“He expects you to explain the advantages of marriage to me,” said Pier-Ariana, trying unsuccessfully to look compliant.
“That he does—and I pray you will listen,” she said, and launched into the first phase of her argument. “It must surely be apparent to you that you have put yourself at a marked disadvantage, given your age and your … recent distresses, and it is only through the deep concern of your family that any chance for a decent life is still available to you. I beg you, keep in mind what your presence may do to the position of us all.” She sat on the end of the narrow bed, for Pier-Ariana was occupying the only chair in the room. “I don’t want to prolong our discussion, because it is pleasant for neither of us.”
“But your husband has instructed you, hasn’t he?” Pier-Ariana asked, doing her best not to sound too indignant at this attempt to coerce her into a marriage she did not want.
“For your sake, yes, and for the rest of us, as well,” said Serafina, pausing as if to muster her arguments. “For women, marriage is a necessity, if there is no inclination for the religious life, and no parent or sibling needing a woman’s care. You are not crippled or ugly, so you have a reasonable expectation, even now, of making a worthwhile alliance. Signor’ Paschetti is a man of good character, one who has much to offer a woman like you. Do not make light of his courtship. Marriage is the path most of us must tread, and many have fared less well than you would with Signor’ Paschetti. All women must weigh such advantages against their inclinations; otherwise we bring dishonor to ourselves and our families.”
“So I have been taught, and not only by Cugin’ Marcantonio,” said Pier-Ariana, who had heard this contention since she was old enough to listen: her mother, the local priest, her aunt in Holy Orders, her playmates, her nursemaid, all impressed upon her the obligation to marry as her family wished. Only her father’s loss of money and subsequent death had altered these admonitions, allowing her to pursue her musical aspirations. “You don’t think you can find many husbands willing to overlook my past in Venezia.”
Rather than blush, Serafina gave a single, decisive nod. “I am glad you grasp the nature of the problem. Your patron did well by you when he was in Venezia and had his fortune, but you can no longer rely on his support, nor can you remain here in so ill-defined a capacity. The convent of San Apollonius would be glad to have you as a tertiary, to direct the choir of the orphanage, but you say you lack religious vocation, so it must be marriage, and sooner rather than later. At least Cornelio Paschetti has not spoke of any deep disapproval of your abilities, so long as you abandon your playing outside the family, although he may occasionally ask you to demonstrate his instruments. The sooner your own music is forgotten, the better it will be for all of us.”
Pier-Ariana was unable to speak, and so she stared at her oil-lamps, swallowing hard three times as she strove to maintain a semblance of control of her temper. “Suppose,” she began, “I had been a widow? Would it then be so hard to secure a husband for me?”
“That is entirely different,” said Serafina. “You would have your husband’s family to provide you a living.”
“Yours didn’t,” Pier-Ariana remarked. “You married Marcantonio because it was that or penury.”
“I have three daughters who must be dowered and wed, and who need a place in the world,” said Serafina stiffly. “I cannot provide any of those things for them, nor can my first husband’s family, with four dead from Swine Fever, along with my late husband. Your cousin did not have to agree to the match, but he did. I would have been irresponsible and contumacious had I refused his offer.” She coughed. “Your cousin is a good man—kindly and generous. I have been most blessed in this marriage, and that, in itself, is reason enough for you to consider Cornelio Paschetti’s offer.”
“So you wed Marcantonio for the sake of your daughters, which was probably very prudent. But I have no children.” Pier-Ariana fell to musing. Finally she said, “There are two books of my songs. They are being sold.” She did not mention she had completed part of a third which she had promised to deliver to Giovanni Boromeo as soon as it was done.
Serafina nodded, not comprehending Pier-Ariana’s meaning. “That is unfortunate, but I must suppose you cannot withdraw them now; the printer expects to recoup the cost of his printing, and he must do something with your patron no longer in a position to bear those expenses, no matter what it means to your reputation. It is a difficult impasse, to be sure, for the printer cannot give up sales for the sake of your family.”
“I will have a little income from the books,” Pier-Ariana reminded Serafina.
“But it is a small amount and once the books are sold, it will be gone.” Serafina shook an admonitory finger at Pier-Ariana. “You must not depend upon such things, for they will fail you.”
“Does Signor’ Paschetti know about the two books?” Pier-Ariana asked, hoping this would end her awkwardness.
For the first time, Serafina lacked a prepared answer. “I … I believe something was mentioned.”
“But you don’t know what,” Pier-Ariana guessed. “That was the part your husband glossed over, wasn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Serafina said huffily. “It isn’t fitting for me to know about such dealings where you are concerned, given that the relation between us is in law, not in blood. You are not my daughter, or any part of my family: you’re my husband’s cousin.”
With a glint of mischief in her eyes, Pier-Ariana said, “Yes, and for that reason, I should think you’d want this Cornelio Paschetti for Giacinta or Feriga, since he is such a good match.”
Unaware of the barb in Pier-Ariana’s observation, Serafina smiled; there was a hint of triumph in her demeanor. “Neither Giacinta nor Feriga have any reason to accept Signor’ Paschetti: both of them have engagements of long-standing, and each will be married when she turns fifteen.”
“So late,” Pier-Ariana marveled.
“Young enough,” said Serafina, again failing to detect the satiric intent of Pier-Ariana’s words. “I think it is wrong to marry a girl off as soon as she has her first bleeding: better to give them a little time to accustom themselves to the world of grown women and the duties of running a household. Those old-fashioned parents who send a bride to the husband’s family at eight do their daughters a disservice. Such conduct may serve very well for nobles, who often have to find brides from far away, but for honest merchants and tradesmen, it is not fitting.”
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