“Why must you be so peevish?”
“Sign it . . . ‘Raven.’ It’s a good spymaster name. Let me see it.”
Dürer handed Dismas the vellum scroll.
“We need a seal,” Dismas said. “Magda, look for a seal in the drawers. He must have one. He’s an archdeacon. Archdeacons are always sealing.”
Dürer said, “Will they not wonder why a secret imperial dispatch from Württemberg bears the seal of the archdeacon of Chambéry?”
“There is no reason they would examine the seal, Nars. We just need a seal. Now go put on your Lothar clothes. Markus, get soot from the stove. Put it on your face. Look like you have been riding for days. And put some vinegar in your eyes, to make them red.”
Magda found the archdeacon’s seal. Dismas heated wax and sealed the dispatch.
“All right. Let’s go.”
“Dismas,” Magda said. “Gloves.”
Dismas shook his head in self-rebuke. He hadn’t slept in over a day. He was tired. He was making more and more stupid mistakes. Magda gave him his gloves and kissed him.
• • •
Charles the Good, Duke of Savoy, listened aghast as Count Lothar read him the dispatch.
“ ‘. . . Such are the lengths, nay, depths, to which François, duplicitous, scheming King of France, will descend in order to put the snake of enmity between Savoy and the Holy Roman Empire.’ ”
Dürer cleared his throat and continued:
“ ‘Without delay, pray inform his excellent and most beloved Christian grace Charles, Duke of Savoy, of this abominable Gallic machination. Assure him that the love and fraternity in which he and all Savoyards are held by his imperial majesty is stronger and more durable than the fiendish plottings of the whoreson French king.’ ”
Charles dabbed at his eyes with a kerchief. Rostang stood beside him, looking aggrieved on behalf of his master. Dismas felt a pang at having given the poor Duke such a start.
Dürer reached the end of his narration and put his hand over his heart to show how acute was his own misery at this odious news.
He rerolled the dispatch scroll and handed it off to Dismas, as if eager to be physically relieved of such a repugnant object.
“How can I express myself to your grace?” Dürer said. “My heart is more heavy than a millstone. Yet I thank God that word of this hateful . . . I have no words . . . this French scheme to cause mischief between Savoy and the Empire has reached us in time.”
Rostang said, “These men posing as imperial irregulars, you say they are German mercenaries? Mm!”
Dürer nodded gravely. “Yes, though it rends my heart to say. To think that my own countrymen would sell their souls for French coin. Scum! Dregs! But the greatest scum of all is he who sits in Paris, on his throne of evil. Oh, perfidy, sure, thy name is François!”
Steady, Dismas thought.
Dürer went on:
“But diabolical though their plan is, your grace must admit its ingenuity. A band of fraudulent imperial troops arrives at Chambéry, on pretense of making pilgrimage, and makes mischief. Starts brawls. Makes blasphemies. Insults the dignity of Savoy. Insults . . . even yourself. Insults”—Dürer made a sign of the cross—“the Holy Shroud itself. To provoke conflict. What could your grace do, in the face of such provocations, but declare your grief and your wish no longer to have the friendship of the Emperor? How François would rejoice at this! How much easier would be the march of his armies, when he sends them south—to destroy you.”
“Rostang!” the Duke said.
“Your grace? Mm!”
“Alert Villiers. Treble the guard at all gates. And when these fiends in human form show themselves . . .”
Charles turned to Dürer.
“Most dear Count Lothar—does the dispatch specify how many fiends there are?”
“May I?” Rostang held out his hand to Dismas.
Dismas squeezed the scroll, crumbling the seal into bits of undecipherable red wax that fell on the stone floor.
“Forgive me,” Dismas said. “Such is my anger.”
He handed the scroll to Rostang, who uncrumpled it and read it over.
“It does not specify how many. Mm!”
Markus, who had been keeping back, as befit his status as messenger, said, “Permission to speak, my lord?”
Dürer turned. “Yes?”
“In Württemberg, I heard mentioned the number fifteen.”
“May I speak?” Dismas said.
“Yes, Master Rufus.”
“Your grace, in my day I did a bit of soldiering. I know these mercenary types. They are called Landsknechte. Worse creatures do not walk the earth. Indeed, you would have to travel to Hell to meet their equal.”
“Well,” Charles said with a hint of miff, “I think my entire guard can handle fifteen mercenaries.”
“I do not impugn your grace’s troops. I have no doubt that they are superb both in mettle and in their devotion to yourself and to Savoy. That said, your grace, I most respectfully urge caution. These men are the very hounds of Satan. They will not go down without a fight. And in this fight they will, I fear, annihilate many a good Savoyard. But even more, I fear their guile. They are skilled in the arts of deception. In this, they are the true heirs to devious Ulysses, author of the Trojan horse. I should tremble if they gained entry to Chambéry.”
Charles’s brow furrowed. “What is it you propose that I do, Master Rufus?”
“Seize the upper hand, your grace. Attack them before they can attack you. Send your troops to surprise them on the Aix road. For sure, they will come from that direction. And send another troop to the foot of the Bauges, in case they come that way. Have your men greet them with artillery.”
“Artillery? But they are only fifteen.”
“Why take chances? When these hellhounds present themselves, welcome them to Chambéry with grapeshot. Let them turn tail like whipped dogs and run squealing to their frog-eating paymaster. You will not soon again be troubled by French on Savoy’s soil. Let King François know that he deals not with Charles the Good, but Charles the Indomitable.”
Duke Charles seemed a bit stunned by it all.
“Er, thank you for this counsel, Master Rufus.”
Dismas bowed deeply.
“I heed what you say about the wiles of these scoundrels. But I repose confidence in our guard. We must make an example of the naughtiness of François. I should like to hear their confessions. And publish their confessions, so that all may hear of the perfidy of François.” He looked at Dürer and smiled. “And of the unbreakable bond between Savoy and the Empire. Master Rostang, is there space in our cellars for fifteen guests?”
“Yes, your grace. Mm! Our dungeons are scarcely occupied. One or two debtors, only.”
“Then let these impostors experience the hospitality of Savoy. We may have to examine them to obtain their confessions. Do we have someone who can . . . you know . . . do the necessary?”
“Mm! No, your grace. When need arises, we usually borrow the executioner of Lyon. Or Milan.”
“Well, send for one. And alert Villiers straightaway. When these scoundrels present themselves at our gate, arrest them. Wrap them well in chains and put them in the cellar, where they may meditate upon their sins. And, Rostang?”
“Mm?”
“Keep this quiet. We don’t want word getting out that there are infiltrators looking to stir up trouble. We will examine them after Friday’s exposition of the Holy Shroud.”
“Very good, your grace. Mm!”
“My dear Count Lothar. How can I express the gratitude of Savoy for your intervention? You have prevented a great wickedness from achieving fruition.”
“Your grace is too generous. What are friends for?”
40
Rehearsal
I thought Count Lothar was rather good,” Dürer said, looking very pleased with himself.
Dismas was in no mood for hallelujahs. He was depressed over not persuading Duke Charles t
o chase off the pursuivants before they reached Chambéry. What if they arrived at the Porte Recluse and presented incontrovertible bona fides? An imperial warrant, say, with an actual imperial seal rather than the archdeacon of Chambéry’s? Dismas’s scheme would come crashing down on them like the ramparts of Troy. Then would come a knock on the apartment door. Savoyard guards, to drag Dismas and Dürer and the rest of them off to the underutilized castle dungeon for a session of peine forte et dure with the moonlighting executioner of Lyon or Milan.
Nor was that the only problem. What was Caraffa up to? How was his plotting to steal the Shroud coming? And Dismas still had not solved the minor detail of how to switch Dürer’s shroud with the real one.
“ ‘Oh, perfidy, thy name is François’?” he said. “A bit rich. I’d say, Vanity, thy name is Dürer.”
Dürer stared archly. “Being a Swiss, you are doubtless unfamiliar with theater, and the other higher arts. But then for drama, you have your avalanches. And of course the annual leading of the cows from the winter barn to the summer pasture. What are the plays of Sophocles and Aeschylus beside those theatricals?”
“Sure, we didn’t lack for drama tonight. I thought you’d draw your sword, shout, ‘Death to François!’ and leap out the fucking window.”
“I thought he was good,” Markus said.
“Thank you, Markus,” Dürer said. “How encouraging to know that artistic excellence is not wasted on everyone of Helvetian persuasion.”
Dürer stomped off to the kitchen.
“Touchy sort, is he?” Markus asked.
“Artist.” Dismas shrugged.
• • •
Toward noon there did come a knock on the door. Dismas held his breath, but it was only one of Rostang’s men, with a note saying there would be a rehearsal in the Holy Chapel that afternoon at four o’clock.
“Rehearsal?”
“For tomorrow’s tableau, Master Dismas. The Last Supper.”
“Ah.”
Amidst everything else, Dismas had forgotten.
He went and banged on Dürer’s door. Dürer had closeted himself within to pout over Dismas’s failure to appreciate properly his latest manifestation of genius. Dismas banged again. Dürer opened the door, greeting Dismas with a baleful look.
Dismas handed him the note. “Your encore is awaited.”
• • •
Dismas, Dürer, and Magda presented themselves at the chapel at the appointed hour. Inside was all activity. Costumes were laid out on tables. Workers everywhere, hoisting by pulley a great painted scenic backdrop with what appeared to be a nightscape showing rooftops of ancient Jerusalem under a gaudy full moon.
Dürer muttered, “Appalling.”
The Holy Chapel had been transformed into the Upper Room, where Jesus and his disciples partook of the Passover meal the night before his death. To make the high-ceilinged chapel more intimate, a lower roof had been improvised with tent cloth. A large wooden table was set in front of the chapel altar. Dismas counted the requisite thirteen chairs, for Jesus and the twelve disciples. By the end of the evening, one of the chairs would be empty, Judas having slunk off to do his betraying.
Rostang saw them and came over. He looked harried but was his ebullient self. He bowed to Count Lothar.
“Ah! The apostle whom Jesus loved is here! Mm!”
“Impressive,” Dürer said of the staging.
“His grace is meticulous. Especially for Last Supper tableaux.”
One of Rostang’s minions came over. Dürer went off with him to the changing area, to be transformed into the Apostle John.
“Might I be of assistance?” Magda asked Rostang. Before he could answer, she volunteered, “I’ll go see if they can use me in the kitchen.”
“Such a lovely girl,” Rostang said to Dismas. “What a shame. Mm!”
“Shame?”
“That she is a nun. Mm!”
Dismas smiled. “Ah. Yes.”
Rostang turned serious and lowered his voice. “There is news, Master Rufus.”
“Yes?”
“Which I must ask you to keep to yourself for now. His grace is most concerned that nothing should interfere with the tableau, or the exposition of the Shroud. It appears that the dispatch was accurate. Mm!”
Dismas tensed. “Ah?”
“Mm! Only one hour ago the provocateurs attempted to enter by the Porte Recluse. There were fifteen, just as we thought. But thanks to God and your warning, Villiers was ready for them.”
“Did they . . . resist?”
“Not for long. Mm! When you find yourself surrounded by the cream of Savoyard soldiery, pointing crossbows at you—the situation soon clarifies.”
“I suppose they pretended innocence?” Dismas ventured.
“Oh, yes. Mm! They had with them some document purporting to be a warrant. But such things are easily forged. The French are masters of this. Rest assured, Master Rufus, we will get to the bottom of it. But after the Shroud. For now, these scoundrels are out of sight in a very damp part of the castle. Let us hope they do not suffer from rheumatism. Ah, Signore Caraffa. How is his grace Urbino?”
“Resting,” Caraffa said. “He asks me to convey to your master his compliments. I am confident he will be able to attend this”—Caraffa looked about the chapel, somewhat at a loss for words—“event.”
“Assure his grace of our prayers that he will join us. Now, if you will excuse me, there is much to do. Much! Mm!” Rostang scurried off, leaving Dismas and Caraffa alone.
Caraffa’s manner was rather friendlier than before. “Strange little man. All this is amusing, don’t you find?”
“Indeed, impressive,” Dismas said.
“The Duke has offered my master the role of the Fisherman.”
“A great honor. It’s the second-best part, after all. And how appropriate, as his grace is nephew to a descendant of Peter.”
Caraffa smiled. “Peter was not at his best that night. Did he not deny that he knew Jesus, three times?”
Some local nobles had arrived and were being shown their costumes.
Caraffa’s tone was collegial and gossipy: “Duke Charles makes good money from these tableaux. Rostang tells me that to be an apostle tomorrow night, it’s a donation of twenty-five ducats. The money goes to the poor of Savoy. So he says. To play the role of the dubious apostle, Thomas, it’s only fifteen ducats.”
“A bargain.”
“He says it’s always a problem to find someone to play Judas.”
“Yes, I should think.”
“Who will play Judas tomorrow? I wonder. For Judas really you need a Jew.”
“They were all Jews around the table,” Dismas said. “Strange, isn’t it, that we are exhorted to abominate Jews, yet Jesus was one?”
“My master’s uncle, the Pope, has been very lenient with the Jews of Rome. He has even permitted them a printing press. What can they be printing? I wonder. But he has borrowed great sums from them, so he cannot afford to treat them as they should be treated. His successor will restore a more correct perspective, I think.”
“I should attend to my master.”
“Before you go, Master Rufus, I must tell you something.”
“Yes?”
“I have not been as courteous with you as I should have. I regret this.”
“I took no offense, signore.”
“His grace’s health has been a great concern to me. And as we all know, it is not from altitude that he suffers. Your Sister Hildegard has been most helpful. His grace is grateful.”
“She did nothing more than her duty.”
“Perhaps. Still, his grace would like to show his gratitude.”
“That is kind, but not necessary, signore.”
“We can discuss that later. For now I will leave you to the preparations.” Caraffa took a few steps, then turned back and said with a wink, “Don’t let them cast you as Judas, eh?”
Dismas was glad to be rid of Caraffa’s company. He went to mingle amon
g the others, memorizing every detail.
Presently Magda reappeared.
“So?”
“I made a friend in the kitchen. The wine steward.”
“I, too, seem to have a new friend. Caraffa. It seems you have made a good impression on Urbino. He wants to give you a reward.”
“Do you still think they will try to steal the Shroud?”
Dismas considered. “Yes. Why else would he suddenly want to be my friend?”
Magda said, “Look there. Rostang.”
Rostang was directing attendants who were carrying two large incense braziers. They placed them at either end of the table.
“Was there incense at the Last Supper?” Magda asked.
“His grace has a sensitive nose for smelly pilgrims.”
Dismas watched. Another servant carried in the silver chest containing the incense. He set it on a stand next to one of the braziers.
Magda walked over idly and, affecting curiosity, lifted its lid. Delicately, with two fingers, she removed what looked like a pebble and held it to her nose. Rostang saw her and came over.
“Can you tell?” he said.
“Myrrh.”
“Of course you would know! Mm! And now we are almost ready to begin. Finally!” He grinned and whispered, “Thank God, I was able to convince his grace not to wash the feet of the apostles. Mm!”
Dismas smiled. “My master would have been honored to have his feet washed by the Duke of Savoy.”
Rostang took Dismas by the arm and with an apologetic air said, “Forgive me, Master Rufus, but I fear I must ask you for a very great favor. Mm!”
“Of course.”
“It appears that we are lacking one apostle.”
Dismas grinned. “Would it by chance be Judas?”
Rostang sighed. “Every time this happens. His grace would be very grateful if—”
“I would be honored.”
The old man sighed with gratitude. “Now you are the apostle whom I love. Mm!”
Rostang turned to Magda, for whom he appeared to have great fondness. “If only I could ask you to participate, Sister. But I regret I cannot. His grace is very particular. He insists that the Last Supper tableau must be a true re-creation. There were no women. Though some silly people insist that the Magdalene was present.”
The Relic Master Page 26
