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 (4 page)

BOOK: States of Grace

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If you will permit me to send you the manuscript I have been preparing for consideration as a work to be included in your publication program, I would be most willing to bring it to you either in Bruges or in Amsterdam, or to receive you or your representative here in Antwerp. At this time we are still fairly safe from the Church here, and the Emperor has not acted against the printers in the region because of the Protestant presence in the cities. Yet I am reluctant to send such material into stringently Catholic territory, for, as you are doubtless aware, many books of a speculative nature, or which deal with matters not supportive to the Church, are often confiscated and added to the embers. So long as I do not expose my manuscript to such ruination, I will consider it an honor to have your consideration, and I will accord your response the highest respect, no matter what your decision may be.

Jaans Marijens
scholar

By my own hand at Antwerp on this, the 2
^ndday of April, 1530

Looking up from the keyboard of her virginals, Pier-Ariana Salier smiled as her patron came through the door of her music room that occupied half of the floor between the street level and the top floor of her narrow house; it was twilight, the last of sunset fading from the sky in long, glowing streamers, just visible out the narrow windows in the west wall. The gathering darkness softened her features and robbed her red-blond hair of fire, sinking her turquoise eyes in shadows and smudging the arch of her mouth. Even the blue-green of her French square-necked and puffed-sleeved robe d’Italienne was muted, and the fine linen guimpe all but invisible; only her necklace of pearls-and-aquamarines shone, and it gleamed, seizing on the last of the light and giving it form.

Di Santo-Germano returned her smile as he strolled to the chitarrone that hung from pegs on the instrument cabinet and took it down, testing its strings for pitch. “The drones are a little flat,” he remarked as he worked the pegs.

“They often are,” she said, playing a bit of a plaintive lament she had heard him sing from time to time. She knew the words were by Lorenzo de’ Medici—the one the Fiorenzani had called il Magnifico—and that they had special meaning to di Santo-Germano; that struck her as odd, since the Fiorenzan poet-banker and uncle of the reigning Pope Clemente had been dead for nearly forty years, but there were a number of odd things about her patron, as she had come to realize, and this was one of the least perplexing of his many puzzles. She changed to a refrain she was developing for one of her own songs. “I have been trying to find a way to develop the main theme that isn’t too obvious, but I haven’t found it yet.”

One of her four household servants came into the music room carrying a lit fuse-string; he proceeded to touch this to the wicks of the hanging oil-lamps, gradually filling the room with wavering, golden light. Then he bowed and left the two alone, heading for the kitchen and his evening meal of fish soup and bread.

When the chitarrone was in tune, di Santo-Germano began to play on it, not de’ Medici’s song, but something Pier-Ariana had never heard before, in a mode with which she was not familiar:

“West lies the abode of sunset,
The place of day’s end, and life’s;
West lies the realm of nightfall,
Of sleeping, of darkness;
West lies the home of death
Of eternity, of immortality.
I go westward, homeward bound.”

“What a strange song,” Pier-Ariana said when di Santo-Germano fell silent. “It’s not Italian, is it? You translated it from another tongue, didn’t you?”

“Yes; I learned it in Egypt,” said di Santo-Germano, and did not add that he had first heard it during the centuries he had served in the Temple of Imhotep, tending the dying.

“Most unusual,” she said, wanting to say something. She looked up at him. “You know many songs I’ve never heard.”

“And you invent songs no one but you has ever heard before, a far more remarkable accomplishment than a feat of memory.” He began to play the chitarrone again, its long neck and angled peg-box held easily against his shoulder, allowing the drone-strings to hum in sympathy to the chords he summoned from the frets. He began the
Plum Blossom Lament,
which he had learned in China a thousand years ago; its recurring three-note phrases,

“Will you, oh, will you please tell me,
Little blossoms, where has my lover gone?”

as heartbreaking as any popular ballad of knightly romance.

“I like that. I don’t know the mode, do I?” She played out the triad on her virginals.

“It is not precisely a mode. It has only five tones, each a whole step apart; it isn’t often heard in the West, but it is everywhere in the East, along with others,” he said, and demonstrated it on the chitarrone.

She copied it on the keyboard. “It doesn’t seem very versatile,” she remarked when she had played it a few times.

“The Chinese don’t find it so,” said di Santo-Germano. “But it is what they are accustomed to hear, as you are accustomed to modes.”

Pier-Ariana’s smile widened. “And you offer all you have heard, to enhance my music.”

“I offer it for whatever use you may want to make of it, even if it is only to entertain you at the end of a very warm May afternoon.” He returned the chitarrone to its wall-pegs and smiled down at her. He was very grand tonight, in dogaline-and-doublet in black damask silk, his dogaline sleeves turned back and fastened with ruby brooches at the shoulder to show the silver-satin lining and his dark-red silken doublet sleeves beneath artfully slashed to reveal his white camisa and its cuffs of short ruffles. On his chest, his pectoral, a black sapphire disk with raised silver wings, depended from a chain of thick silver links. His leggings were black silk, his thick-soled black shoes were ornamented with ruby rosettes, and he carried a sword and a dagger; the appearance he presented was elegantly formidable as well as undoubtedly rich.

“You do more than sing to sustain me,” she said, and blushed, her fingers fumbling on the keys.

He bent down and kissed her brow. “And you give me more than music, carina.”

Her blush deepened. “Di Santo-Germano … Patron mio …
”
She could think of nothing to say, so she ran off several fragments of melodies.

“I saw the proof pages of the book of your songs this morning, before I called upon Consiglier Arcibaldo Tedeschi.” He said this as if it had no particular significance, and gave her a soft look when she uttered a squeak of excitement and shot up from her bench.

“How are they? Does it look well? Are the pages correct?” She spoke too rapidly for him to respond.

“They look well,” he said as she gave a little bounce. “I saw no errors, but you must examine them yourself, and tell me if they are correct. It is your work and you deserve it to be accurate.” He smoothed her hair back from her brow. “Tomorrow, if you want to go to the press, I will arrange for a matron to accompany you.”

She nodded twice. “Oh, yes, thank you. I would love to see how it looks. Mille, mille grazie.” She wrapped her arms around him, her head on his shoulder. “You are so good to me.”

“It will take another two months before the volumes are ready to sell, even if there are only a few changes to be made,” he warned her, adding lightly, “By then, you should be used to the notion of your songs being available all through the Repubblica Veneziana.”

“And the Papal States?” she asked eagerly.

“If booksellers order the books, then there, or anywhere else, even the New World, in time, and from there, all around the world.” He found her enthusiasm touching, and so he added, “Be tranquil. Your work is excellent, Pier-Ariana. It will be well-received.”

She frowned at once. “But if it is not, what then?”

“The work speaks for itself. Anyone who dislikes it only shows he has a poor ear and pedestrian taste,” said di Santo-Germano. “Do not be daunted by the opinions of others; you haven’t been so far. Very few women ever attempt the sort of life you have chosen for yourself. You did not let the disapproval of others stop you before—do not do so now. You will know how well you have been received by how often you hear your songs sung.”

Very slowly she nodded. “I suppose you’re right,” she allowed. “But if you find many who dislike my work, what will you do?”

“I will assume our opinions are different, and our tastes in music,” said di Santo-Germano, kissing her lightly on the upper lip.

“You will not become … disenchanted?” The anxiety in her eyes wrung his heart.

“No. I may listen to the opinions of others, but I am not easily swayed. Your songs are very moving, and I put my trust in what moves me. Believe this, Pier-Ariana.” He held her close until the fear faded from her countenance. “I stand by what I print.”

She laughed shakily. “I’m nervous,” she admitted.

“Hardly surprising,” he said. “But I think there is no reason for it.”

“You have to say that,” she remarked, her face tense.

“It may seem so, but that isn’t the case.” He touched her hair again. “You mustn’t succumb to doubts now, carina.”

“But that is all I have now: doubts, great masses of doubts.” Now that she admitted it, she very nearly collapsed. “I don’t know what to say to you, di Santo-Germano. You have been stalwart in your support, and I … I am afraid you have misplaced your certainty.”

“I would not agree, but that—
”

She attempted to laugh, backing away from him. “You are truly good to me, and I know how fortunate I am. You have done everything I could possibly ask for, and more. So you mustn’t think I am ungrateful, but—
”

He interrupted her, keeping his voice steady and gentle so that she would not be dejected by what he said. “Spare me your gratitude. I have done nothing to deserve it. It pleases me to do this for you, and it pleases me to be allowed to publish your songs.”

“In fact, you are satisfying yourself by being my patron,” she said, amusement and disbelief emerging from her spate of self-castigation.

“Yes, I am,” he said simply.

“Why don’t you want my gratitude?” She stared at him, deeply curious.

“Because gratitude can be poisonous; it forces you to be beneath me and me to be superior instead of equals. Let us agree that I am fortunate to be rich, and that I am in a position to help you advance your work, to our mutual benefit and satisfaction, but do not be grateful. It erodes all other feelings.” He held but his hand to her. “Thank me, if you must, and I will accept your thanks gladly. But do not embrace gratitude.”

She stared at him. “I will try,” she said.

“Very good,” he approved.

“You are a strange man, di Santo-Germano, even for a foreigner. Not that I mind your being strange.” She paused to remove the stopper and pour herself a cup of straw-colored wine from a tall glass bottle. “As I recall, you don’t drink wine. Do you?”

“No, I do not,” he said, watching her drink.

“You are like those who follow Mohammed, then?” She took a sip of the wine and looked at him.

“No, I am not.” He saw the question she could not bring herself to ask. “I follow no King and serve no known gods. I have told you this when I offered my patronage.”

“You also said you are an exile.” She drank again, holding the base of the cup tightly.

“I am,” he said. “Which is why one of the Doge’s men has summoned me for later this evening.”

She shook her head. “That is so sad, being an exile.”

“Not sad,” he corrected her gently. “I have grown used to it over the years.”

“How can anyone grow used to such a state?” she asked, and finished her wine.

“One can accustom oneself to a great many things, given time and reason enough; not all of them need be onerous.” He went and sat down at her virginals, starting to play a festive dance melody he had first heard two hundred years ago, before the Black Death came to Provence.

“That’s a pleasant tune,” said Pier-Ariana, running the tip of her finger around the rim of her cup. “Old-fashioned, but very nice.”

“Being old-fashioned isn’t a fault,” said di Santo-Germano with a faint smile.

“Probably not,” said Pier-Ariana. “But it is not a virtue, either.” She listened a short while, then said, “You play very well. It is most remarkable to hear a man of rank show such skill.”

“You mean men of rank do not practice, or they are too much flattered?
”
He continued to play, choosing now an anthem from the long-vanished days of Imperial Roma.

“That’s a bit self-important. Where did you discover it?”

“It is over-blown, I agree, and self-congratulatory, but there is something charming in its bombast.” He continued with the anthem: “Jupiter, the Biggest and Best,” which he had first heard in Rome when Julius was Caesar. “It is a fine song, of its type.”

“You haven’t said where you learned it,” she persisted.

“No, I did not,” he said cordially. “And that should not surprise you.”

She sighed in mild exasperation. “You do exhaust patience, di Santo-Germano.”

“It is not my intention to do so,” he told her, and finished the Roman song.

She rang for her houseman. “I want a fire built up in here, and another fire started in my bedchamber; have Gabbio attend to the latter,” she told him as soon as he arrived. “You may finish your usual duties and then have until the evening cheese is served to your own use.”

“Si, Signorina,” said Baltassare Fentrin, bowing as if she were of noble birth.

“And ask Lilio to serve the baked fish in the dining room in an hour,” Pier-Ariana said. “He said he would need half an hour to cook it.”

BOOK: States of Grace

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