Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“Yet still you come to spend time with me,” she said, a bit uneasily.

  His smile did not last long. “Oh, men keep mistresses, as everyone knows, and you may be relied upon to keep the interests of Venezia uppermost in your mind, no matter what pleasure we share.” He bent his head to kiss her palm, and although the touch of his lips was light, she felt every nuance of it.

  “Is it wise to tell me so?” she asked, a catch in her throat.

  “Certainly, since we both understand it. What have I said that discredits Venezia?” He released her hand. “If I come to your house much later this evening, will you be willing to receive me?”

  “I will always be glad to receive you.” Pier-Ariana was truly edgy now. “Though it be midnight or beyond.”

  “Thank you, carina. I will be delighted to return.” Di Santo-Germano turned toward the door. “May you dine well.”

  “And you?” she asked provocatively. “How will you dine?”

  He swung back toward her. “That, carina, will depend upon you.”

  Text of a letter from Maarten Gerben in Bruges to Grav Germain Ragoczy in care of Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano in Venezia, written in Flemish, carried by merchant-train, and delivered two months after it was written.

  To the most Excellent Grav Germain Ragoczy, the greetings of the printer Mijner Gerben, and the assurance that His Excellency’s on-going program of publication is proceeding along the lines that his instructions require.

  Thus far, I rejoice to inform His Excellency, there has been no more difficulty concerning the recent publication of the Reports and Assessments of the Peoples and Treasures of the New World, with Catalogues of Their Weapons and Armor. The testimony of the Spanish Commander Miguel de Lorimondo has provided the city authorities with information that corroborates the assertions of the author, and all legal action against him has been withdrawn, although the Church may still instigate a Process against him, making it advisable for him to avoid Catholic countries. His Excellency will need to maintain Girlando Escaltos y Quista in England for at least another two years in order to keep him safe: the author seeks to establish himself at Cambridge, which he prefers to Oxford.

  The manuscript of Erneste van Amsteljaxter is in preparation for publication, and I have taken the liberty of enclosing a copy of it with this letter. I believe that the work is all His Excellency hoped it would be. It is most important that His Excellency vouchsafes his permission in a timely manner, for it is most improper for me to go to press without your authorization. I am of the opinion that her work, Lyrics and Tales of the Peasants of Brabant, will find a good reception in many northern cities, although many may disapprove of a woman going about Brabant with only her paternal aunt to protect her, even for the purpose of gathering these legends. For all her aunt is a nun, many do not approve of women traveling unescorted as they have done. Erneste van Amsteljaxter is presently in Antwerp, but has been invited to stay with the distinguished scholar Emile van Loo in Amsterdam for several months.

  Ninian Paget’s New Theories of the Heavens and the Nature of Clouds has gone into a second printing, and the author has asked to be permitted to amend his work should there be a third printing. I fear that the revisions Paget might make would be extensive, and it is a considerable task to alter vast amounts of text, but I will abide by His Excellency’s decision.

  Paper has been in short supply, as you know. It is one of the most persistent difficulties of the work we do here. I am certain that some of the trouble I have encountered in obtaining paper is due to the variety of works this press provides; if we were to print only Psalms and Testaments, I doubt we would encounter half the obstructions we have had to deal with.

  I look forward to the day when I can discuss this with His Excellency face-to-face, and I hope that at such a time His Excellency will do me the honor of providing solutions to the difficulties that now beset us; it is always possible that the tenor of the times could turn against the work we do, and the publications this press has produced for the public.

  In all duty and humility, I sign myself

  His Excellency’s most

  Truly obedient servant to command,

  Mnr. Maarten Gerben

  On the 29thday of April, 1530, at Bruges

  4

  One of the bargemen was shouting imprecations and curses at the occupants of a private gondola; his energetic invectives carried across the water to the Ca’ Fosian, where it rose among the elaborate new palaces on the south side of the Pont’ Rialto; workmen labored to complete rebuilding the bridge. May had turned warm, and the brisk breeze was barely sufficient to cut through the midday heat, as penetrating as the furnaces of the glass-makers. The bargeman raised his voice again, calling on San Marco to strike the prosperous merchants in the gondola with lightning.

  From his second-floor study window, Orso Fosian watched the workers and wiped his face with his sleeve, then turned to his visitor. “If May is this hot, what will July be?” He expected no answer, and went on, “I wish I could tell you that any of my ships have had any success in evading the corsairs, but they have not.” He was almost fifty, still straight and imposing, although he walked slowly due to a painful back, and his face was the texture of old leather from his youth spent at sea. His dogaline-and-doublet were as fine as any in the city, of a dull-plum intertwined-leaf damask lined in a very conservative shade of pewter; the lace edging on his sleeves and collar was from Liege, and the points were accented with seed-pearls. “I have had to spend a fortune to get my sailors back, as have my brothers; the oarsmen must be considered lost to the Turks, may God punish them for their temerity.” As one of the six members of the powerful Minor Consiglio, he found his loss particularly galling. He reached for the shutter and slammed it closed, shutting out the clamor and invectives from the canal below, muttering, “No more.”

  “A heavy burden for any man,” said Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano. “Are you going to put armed men on your ships?” He, too, was handsomely dressed in a dogaline-and-doublet of black silk edged in a narrow band of silver lace and lined in deep-red satin, over a camisa of fine linen from Crete; his leggings and shoes were black, ornamented with small garters with diamond clips, at once restrained and luxurious.

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” Fosian confessed. “It is a dreadful expense, having such guards on the ships, and most soldiers don’t like duty at sea, but if they save the cargo and the crew, they are worth every ducat.”

  “Indeed,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “I have heard you have hired a company of armed men for your ships,” Fosian said, a speculative lift to his thick, white eyebrows.

  “For those ships traversing Ottoman waters, yes. If it proves a satisfactory arrangement, then I may put them on all the craft I own; the corsairs are broadening their hunts every month, and my captains are beginning to accept the notion of having soldiers aboard.” Di Santo-Germano regarded Fosian narrowly. “What about pilferage here, at the docks and wharves?”

  “It is a constant, as you must know for yourself,” said Fosian. “A terrible situation, but what can anyone do?”

  “Hire guards for the cargos once they’re off-loaded,” said di Santo-Germano at once. “Give your ships’ soldiers something to do ashore beyond whoring and drinking.”

  “They’re apt to be the most light-fingered of all,” said Fosian miserably. “But you’re right: cargos must be guarded, and emporia, as well, just as we guard the Arsenal. So many things must be protected.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “All of which costs money.”

  “That it does,” said di Santo-Germano, and reached into the tooled black-leather wallet that hung from his narrow belt. “Which is why I have brought this with me.” He held out a small purse that jingled. “My contribution to the protection of all docks, wharves, and emporia.”

  Fosian took the purse and untied its knotted thongs, then turned out the contents onto his work-table; he stifled a gasp at what fell out. “Fiorini d’or,” he marveled as the golden
Florentine coins poured onto the wood. “So much! How many?”

  “Seventy,” said di Santo-Germano as if this staggering amount was nothing more than a few silver Turkish sequins; he had made the gold in his own athanor in his private laboratory, and used genuine Florentine molds and stamps to cast the precious metal.

  “A princely sum,” said Fosian, recovering himself enough to scoop up the gleaming trove and slip it into a small drawer in the chest under the table. “I will, naturally, inform I Savii of your contribution.”

  “And I thank you for that consideration,” said di Santo-Germano. “This is a hard time for trading.”

  “So it is,” said Fosian. “I can see the trouble everywhere.”

  The city was flourishing, and Venezia was rich beyond imagining, but di Santo-Germano knew this made her as much a target as an example to other ports. “The jealousy of rivals is the price of achievement.”

  Fosian held up one palm to show he was helpless to stop such envy. “This will help us; I know the Minor Consiglio will be grateful.” He coughed gently. “Your taxes will not be lessened.”

  “I realize that,” said di Santo-Germano. “That would be possible only if I were a citizen of La Serenissima.”

  “You could be,” Fosian suggested.

  “It is impractical, I regret to say,” he responded with a slight, self-effacing bow. “As an exile, I fear I would not be able to sustain my obligations to Venezia—”

  “—If your exile should end,” Fosian finished for him. “I do understand you. And I see your point. Ah, well. If you should change your mind, I would be pleased to speak on your behalf.”

  Di Santo-Germano spoke quietly. “I am deeply obliged to you, Consiglier Fosian.”

  Fosian waved this away. “You have no reason for such obligation, not after so lavish a gift as you have provided. I would be a fool not to sponsor such a man as you.”

  “Nevertheless, I am obliged to you,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “If you insist,” said Fosian, and came up to his guest to touch cheeks with him. “You are a most gracious fellow, Conte, and I thank you on behalf of the Doge and his Consiglii, and Savii.”

  Di Santo-Germano accepted the courtesy, saying, “I will do myself the honor of calling upon you within the next fortnight. I would like to present you with a copy of my press’ latest books.”

  “Generous and perspicacious,” approved Fosian. “For if I have copies of the books, how can I protest your publications?” He laughed, and started toward the door. “I am sorry you cannot join us for prandium, but as you have other business to attend to—”

  “I thank you for your invitation; I am sorry I must decline. I wish you good appetite, glad companions, and a pleasant repose when the meal is done,” said di Santo-Germano, preceding his host through the door. “I have been told you keep an excellent table.”

  “As any man in my position must, as he must dress and equip himself,” said Fosian. “Well, do not trouble yourself. We will dine together another time.”

  “When it is appropriate,” said di Santo-Germano, politely avoiding the necessity of refusing another invitation.

  “As you say.” They descended the broad staircase to the main floor, and the loggia that fronted on the canal. “Your gondola is here.”

  “Yes,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “You do well to keep a gondola of your own. It is safer to do so,” said Fosian as he signaled for the boat to approach the loading step.

  “Yes; it is,” said di Santo-Germano, whose native earth provided the weight of the shallow keel he had had built into the gondola, along with certain other modifications of his own design. He stepped into the craft and bowed slightly to Fosian. “Grazie per tutti, Consiglier Fosian.”

  “San Marco show you favor,” Fosian replied, and waved as the gondola pulled away from his palazzo.

  The gondola slid in among the tangle of other gondolas, boats, and barges, the rear oar plying the waters expertly. As they reached the middle of the canal, the gondolier, Milano da Costaga, spoke up, taking care not to be overheard by any other boatmen. “Conte, there is a man following you.”

  Di Santo-Germano looked around, shading his eyes against the twin glint of sky and water. “Are you certain?”

  “I am. I have observed him for the last three days. I believe he is a nephew of one of the Savii, or someone close to them, but I am not sure. A young foppish sort, a bit too good-looking and eager; you know the breed.” Milano skillfully avoided a small rowboat filled with loaves of new bread, then swerved around another boat drawn up at the side entrance to a small palazzo.

  “Tell me more,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “I first noticed him three days since. He was on the bridge at San Barnaba, trying to appear disinterested, but I saw him try to keep up with us as we went toward the Bacino di San Marco. Had he not started running, I would have paid no attention to him, but …”

  When Milano said nothing more, di Santo-Germano asked, “Is that all?”

  “No. I observed him outside San Luca yesterday, and this morning I saw him at the Campo San Angelo.”

  “Venezia is a small place,” said di Santo-Germano. “Are you sure he is following me, and not simply moving in places that I move? If he is a relative of one of the Savii, he might be about any number of duties for them.”

  “I know a man bent on proper business, and one seeking to do harm.” Milano steered toward the smaller canal that would lead to the side of di Santo-Germano’s elegant house.

  “I have no doubt you do,” said di Santo-Germano as the gondola slipped up against the marble steps. “You must not think I doubt you, but it may not be as bad as you suspect.” He tossed Milano a pair of silver coins. “Keep watch for him, but do not follow him yourself, only notice when you see him about, and in two days tell me what you find.”

  Milano snatched the coins out of the air. “That I will, Conte.”

  Di Santo-Germano got carefully out of the gondola, and stepped into the small side loggia of his house; at once Niccola came running, a sealed letter in his hand and a worried expression on his young face as he thrust the envelope forward. “Conte! Conte! This came for you.”

  As Milano busied himself securing the gondola to the marble pillars in its mooring spot next to the loggia steps, di Santo-Germano reached for the letter, noticing it had an impression of the Ambrogio arms in the wax sealing it. “When did this arrive?”

  “Not two hours ago. A servant from the Arsenal brought it,” said Niccola, impressed in spite of himself.

  “Very good,” said di Santo-Germano. “I’ll have a look at it shortly.”

  Disappointed, Niccola took a step back. “Of course, Signor’ Conte. But it’s important.”

  “All the more reason to open it in private,” said di Santo-Germano, and continued on through his house to the stairs, which he climbed two at a time. As soon as he reached his study, he broke the seal on the letter and read the contents, his frown deepening as he read:

  To the most esteemed foreigner, Conte Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano, the greetings of Romealdo Ambrogio, merchant and clerk to the Collegio.

  I am bidden to inform you that the recommendations and designs you have submitted to the Collegio for the improvement of our warships is under review. You will be asked to wait upon the Savii of the Collegio within the next ten days. Being that you hold no allegiance to any sovereign or any position that would compromise your situation in Venezia, your Word of Surety is all that is required of you at this time. You are asked to hold yourself in readiness, and to inform the Collegio of any travel you may be undertaking within the next year, along with sworn statements of purpose and destinations of such travel. I am certain you understand the necessity of this.

  San Marco and the Adriatic preserve Venezia,

  Romealdo Ambrogio

  by my own hand, this day, May 10th, 1530 Anno Domini

  Di Santo-Germano sat still, tapping the note on his hand. This might explain his b
eing followed, he thought, all the while puzzling over the clerk’s note. The Doge often assigned spies to those whose work was closely tied to the interests of the Venezian State, but such men usually had skill enough not to be noticed. His thoughts were interrupted as Ruggier came through the side-door that led to the stairs to di Santo-Germano’s alchemical laboratory on the top floor of the house. “There you are. How is it with you, old friend?” he asked as he saw the scowl on Ruggier’s face.

  “I caught Euchario—”

  “The under-steward?” di Santo-Germano interjected.

  “The very man,” said Ruggier with morose satisfaction. “He was in the stairwell there”—he pointed to the door he had just opened—“and I suspect he had been to the laboratory, although he declared he had not. He claimed he didn’t know you had left the house.”

  “Did he give any reason for his explorations?” di Santo-Germano asked as if he were inquiring about nothing more important than the latest shipment of hides from Tana; he continued to speak in the Venezian dialect.

  “He said it was to serve the State, but nothing more than that,” said Ruggier in the same tongue. “I have him confined to his room, awaiting your decision about him.”

  “Ah.” Di Santo-Germano glanced at the note he held and put it aside. “Is this the first thing he has done for the State, or has he reported my doings regularly?”

  “He did not say,” Ruggier told him.

  “Well, we may be certain he is not the only spy in this household.”

  “Yes, we may,” Ruggier agreed, clear disapproval on his lean face, and waited for di Santo-Germano to go on.

  “Milano tells me I am being followed,” di Santo-Germano said remotely. “Is it more of the same, do you think?”

  “It may be.”

  “Did he tell you what he was after?” di Santo-Germano asked.