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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “When you say old what do you mean?” Pier-Ariana stared hard at him.

  “I mean that she has known me for a very long time,” said di Santo-Germano. “A very long time.”

  “Capizolo,” she said in the Venetian dialect, nodding decisively.

  “It is a good thing you understand,” he responded. “I will tell you more once I have her answer. Then you can make arrangements that suit you, and my old friend as well.” He decided to send word to Olivia in the morning; a courier could be hired to carry his letter to her estate at Nepete on the Via Cassia, and get a reply in return in twelve days.

  Pier-Ariana ate another sardine and stared at the nearest oil-lamp. “I hope it will not come to that.”

  “I truly doubt that it will,” said di Santo-Germano, and busied himself latching the shutters over the windows. “A pity to have to close up the house on such a warm night, but—”

  She nodded. “But thieves are everywhere and an open window is an invitation to steal.”

  He looked around the room. “You would not like to lose any of your instruments.”

  “Or have them broken,” she said, and took a step toward him. “I have been a trial tonight, haven’t I? I ask your pardon for my excesses.”

  “You have done nothing deserving pardon, Pier-Ariana; you have expressed your affection and concern for me: what can I be but flattered?” He offered her a quick smile.

  “With worries for myself larded on,” she said self-effacingly. “For that alone, then, I ask your pardon.”

  “If you must have it, then know that you do, though there is no need,” he said, and opened his arms to her, enfolding her as she reached him.

  “You are so elusive, Conte. You are at once the most generous lover and the most equivocal.” She turned in his arms, but only to be able to kiss his lips more easily; the remnants of sardines gave them a fishy savor. As she broke their kiss, she said a bit unsteadily, “I was afraid that you were tired of me, or had come to dislike my work.”

  “Why should I?” he asked, kissing the corner of her mouth.

  “Because I am a turbulent woman—or so my father told me I would be,” she said, fingering the narrow ruff of pleated lace along the edge of his camisa’s neck.

  “Fathers often worry that their daughters may not be the perfected creatures they expect, and their fears make it inevitable that their daughters will disappoint them,” said di Santo-Germano, his lips lingering, feather-light, on hers.

  “And how many daughters have you had, that you know this?” she teased, and then fell silent at the haunted expression that crossed his attractive, irregular features like a shadow; she wished her words unsaid, but dared not speak again.

  “I’ve had none,” he said softly. “But I have known other men’s daughters.” Their faces flickered through his memory, each woman distinct and precious, all but one lost to him now, through mortal death, the True Death, or deliberate estrangement. He regarded her without speaking for some little time, then lifted her into his arms as if she weighed no more than her virginals, and made for the door.

  “You are very strong,” she murmured. “I have noticed before.”

  “I trust others are less observant,” he said, climbing the stairs that led to her bedchamber half a floor above the music room without any effort or lessening of speed.

  A single lamp shone in the gloom of the bedchamber, just above her kneeling bench with her rosary laid across a leather-bound copy of The New Testament, illustrated with handsome wood-cuts done by Lindo Guardin, with a frontispiece in three colors. Her bed was curtained in red-and-tan bargello-work hangings, all but one of them just now closed. Two clothes-chests stood against opposite walls, both with painted scenes on their doors and panels, so that the shine of reflected water on the house-front visible out the window seemed incongruous. The walls had murals of espaliered fruit trees on rustic stone fences, so that the small benches under the windows looked as if they might be countryside amenities, and the ceiling was pale blue with clusters of blossom-like clouds gathering in the four corners.

  Di Santo-Germano put her down beside her bed and pulled off his black damask silk dogaline, flinging it onto the bench under the nearest window. He touched the laces on the back of her corsage. “Shall I unfasten this for you?”

  “I don’t want to call Merula just now, and it can’t be done without help,” she said, keeping her voice low, for her ’tirewoman slept in the small apartment on the far side of the large dressing room on the other side of this bedchamber. “If you wouldn’t mind?” She tugged the ends of the laces out from the top of her fine ruched-muslin gonnella.

  Taking the ends of the laces in his hands, di Santo-Germano unfastened the simple knots that held the corsage closed, then loosened them until Pier-Ariana could shrug out of the upper part of her dress, revealing the sheer-linen guimpe beneath, and her corset. “How do women alone ever manage to dress themselves?” he asked the air.

  “It is very difficult,” said Pier-Ariana, unfastening the two dozen little bows that closed the front of her guimpe, frowning as one of the bows became a knot. “Unless one wishes to dress like a peasant, some assistance is needed. These garments need a second set of hands to be worn properly, or undone without damage.” She broke the small ribbon of silk. “At least you don’t try to make love while undressing.”

  “Why should I—since you dislike it?” He removed the fine gold chain from around her neck, and the polished aquamarine pendant that it held; these he set on the nearest chest and returned to assisting her out of her clothes.

  “It’s all so impractical,” she complained, picking another knot of ribbon open.

  While di Santo-Germano worked the ends of the broad bands holding her voluminous silk skirt and the gonnella beneath, he remarked, “A few centuries ago, noblemen wore shoes so pointed that they could not walk up and down stairs while wearing them.” He dropped her skirt so she could step out of it, then started on the gonnella. “In such weather as Venezia has had, it is unfortunate that we all must wear so much to be properly dressed.”

  “You could do what Tiberio Tedeschi does, and dress like a Turk; he even attends meetings of the Collegio so attired,” she pointed out, half-seriously. “At least he is cool in the summer.”

  “Tiberio Tedeschi is a man of impeccable Venezian lineage, with four Consiglieri for cousins: he could dress like a Chinese warlord and no one would say a word. But, as I am an exile, I must follow the strictures of Venezia while I am here.” He held her hand while she stepped out of the pleated froth of her gonnella, then tugged at the closure of his doublet; the scent of her jasmine perfume grew stronger.

  “When you are in Bruges, you will dress in their manner, I suppose?” She pressed her lips together, not wanting to remember his coming absence; she used her silence to step out of her high-soled shoes.

  “Of course,” he said, and started to work on the complex lacing of her corset.

  “The same in London?” Her voice had gone up three notes.

  “Oh, yes; and in Kiev and in Delhi, and in almost any place but Africa,” he said, and bent to kiss the nape of her neck.

  “Why not Africa?” She was truly curious.

  “Because I cannot change my skin, and there I am clearly a foreigner, no matter how I dress. There, I am completely exposed; I cannot alter my appearance sufficiently to disguise my origins, or to present myself acceptably, as I might in China.” He pulled her corset away from her body.

  She turned to face him. “And you’ve been to China, I suppose?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I have.”

  She looked up into his eyes. “And you could go there again?”

  “I might, in time. But not just now,” he whispered, and bent to kiss her, following her arousal with his own. He did not move to touch her body until she took a last half-step nearer and wrapped her arms around his waist. Continuing the kiss, he slowly stroked her back, marveling in the texture of her skin and feeling the first stirrings o
f her arousal.

  “You never remove your camisa, or your lower garments,” she said as she turned a little in his arms, addressing her remarks to the top closure of his camisa.

  “No, and I have already told you that I never will.” He paused in his graceful caresses.

  “It seems a waste,” she said, attempting to pull his camisa from the waist-band of his French barrel-breeches.

  He stopped her gently. “I have scars, carina—you would not like them.” They extended from his rib cage to the base of his pelvis: broad swathes of porcelain-white, striated tissue which marked the disemboweling that had killed him, thirty-five centuries ago.

  “So you tell me,” she said as she stepped back and went to throw herself onto the bed, facedown, her bare feet sticking over the side and through the open curtains. “Just when I begin to think I am vexed with you, I realize that you have done something out of your consideration of me.” She slapped the coverlet on which she lay. “I will take what you are willing to give me,” she said as if conceding a game of chance. “You are a most welcome lover, no matter how you are clothed.”

  He went to her, stretching out beside her, where he began to touch her back and flank, making no effort to turn her on her side. His hands were adventuresome and playful, turning her body pliant. Gradually he worked his way from her shoulder to her elegant, trim waist, his kisses following the progress of his hands. Nothing he did was hurried; all his evocation waited upon her response and her pleasure. As he slid one hand around her to fondle her breasts, teasing her nipples into excitation, she gave a rapturous murmur, but remained prone, taking all his attentive exploration into herself, cherishing his magnanimity that placed her satisfaction before his own. Her breathing changed, and in a sudden movement, he pulled her on top of him to lie supine, her legs on either side of his. His camisa pressed into her back, but that hardly mattered to her as his hands went along her abdomen to the cleft between her legs, where his magical caresses continued. She was both utterly free and completely captivated by his embrace, and she felt a kind of rapture that was so wholly personal that she had no words to express it, only sensations.

  Gradually she felt her body gather, and as the first of her spasms shook her, she felt his mouth touch her neck even as the fulfillment of her desire exalted her beyond the confines of her bed, her house, even her flesh, to that realm where she was deliriously enveloped in soaring melodies for what felt like hours. Finally she shifted off him, back in the world. “How do you do that?” she said at last, her breathing still a bit unsteady.

  “It is your doing, carina Pier-Ariana,” di Santo-Germano murmured. “I do only what you seek for me to do.”

  “So you say,” she said, and rolled to face him so she could wrap her arms around him before she floated into sleep.

  Text of a letter to Ruggier in Venezia from Bogardt van Leun in Amsterdam, written in French, carried by private courier, and delivered twelve days after it was given to the courier.

  To the houseman Ruggier at the house of Franzicco Ragoczy, Conte di Santo-Germano on the Campo San Luca in Venezia, of the Serenissima Repubblica, the greetings of Bogardt van Leun, steward of the house of the Grav, Germain Ragoczy, in Amsterdam, with the assurance that all will soon be in readiness for His Excellency’s arrival.

  I thank you for sending us notice of the Grav’s coming, and his plans to remain here for three or four months through the winter. I have followed all your instructions in regard to preparing the house, including the spreading of earth from the trunks stored in the house over the foundations, and under the floor of the Grav’s room. We have also stopped all leaks from the canal that have come into the house. New paint has gone into rooms where there has been damp, and two bracing boards have been replaced on the side of the house. We have also realigned the rear door and put new paint on it as well.

  We are now provisioning the house for your stay, and we have begun the inspections of all beds and bedding, and will perform those tasks you have set for us by the time you arrive. I will have taken on the required additional staff by then.

  I have exchanged mail with Jaquet Saint Philemon, my counterpart in Bruges, but have yet had no word from Simeon Roosholm in Antwerp, which may only mean that the soldiers are delaying couriers again, but may have more serious implications. I mention this so that you and the Grav will be aware of what you might expect in the Lowlands. In the meantime, you may rest assured that our labors go on apace.

  With my high regard to His Excellency and with my respects to you,

  I sign myself,

  Bogardt van Leun

  steward

  In Amsterdam by my own hand on the 2ndday of July, 1530

  7

  Merveiglio Trevisan was sea-weathered and walked with a limp but was otherwise an impressive figure: tall, richly dressed in clothing embroidered at the slashings with lines of matched pearls. At fortyfour, he was a close friend of Alvise Mocenigo, and although he did not trade on his alliance with the Doge, all Venezia knew of it, and treated him accordingly. As a Consiglier of the Minor Consiglio, he had much influence of his own. He stood in the main reception room of di Santo-Germano’s house on the Campo San Luca, a glass of excellent Toscana wine in his hand, and a genial smile revealing the deep wrinkles in his skin. “I thank you for seeing me so promptly, Conte,” he said to his host.

  “I am delighted to have you a guest in my house,” said di Santo-Germano in perfect form; in spite of the heat his pourpoint had a standing velvet collar and the sleeves held their exaggerated shape with stiff taffeta ribbons reinforced with borders of silver braid and little clusters of rubies. His camisa beneath was glossy white silk, all unblemished, with lace at the wrist and neck; he held an orange stuck full of cloves in one hand against the ripening odors of a sweltering summer afternoon; the air was still and close, muffling the thunder trampling the low clouds spread over the lagoon and the hills beyond.

  “I’m pleased for the occasion that brings me here. I believe the Savii and the Collegio have much to be proud of in regard to their decision; I voted for your modifications at the first and advocated for them in our debate. If the Maggior Consiglio approves your improvements, I think you may anticipate high recognition as soon as the innovations are put into effect and proven.”

  “Do you,” said di Santo-Germano, indicating the open window. “To come out, with a storm brewing, your mission must be singularly important.” He held out a round fan of painted silk. “Here. This may lessen your discomfort.”

  Trevisan took it and carefully studied the painting. “From China, by the look of it.”

  “Yes. Brought from Trebizond, along with bolts of silk, and casks of spices.” He smiled. “I have also received three barrels of pepper.”

  At that, Trevisan put the fan to use. “Three barrels! If you were not rich already, such bounty would make your fortune.”

  “No doubt,” di Santo-Germano agreed. “But you had something to tell me …” He let his rising inflection serve as an invitation.

  “Oh. Yes. Your designs for modifications of the war-galleys. The Collegio and the Minor Consiglio have approved them, and this morning, so did the Doge. They all agree that although you are a foreigner, your improvements will work to our advantage, particularly raising the upper decks by three handsbreadths above the current height. Doge Mocenigo agrees that cannon-fire will carry farther from a slightly higher deck, and the new design of the keel will compensate for any possible instability the rise will require. The corvus, placed as you have recommended, will be able to inflict more damage in close battles.”

  “The Romans of old found the corvus useful in that position,” di Santo-Germano murmured, then raised his voice, saying, “So the Maggior Consiglio is the last hurdle to clear,” as if this were only a small concern.

  “Yes. It will be put before them next week; I anticipate they will finish their review by the time you return from the north. It is very important that you do not remain away for longer than you have stat
ed you will be, for the Maggior Consiglio would take your absence as an indication of intrigue. Keep in mind that they are putting great consequence on your designs. When something is that important, they act swiftly.”

  If di Santo-Germano found fourteen months less than swift, he did not mention it; as a body of more than a thousand men, the Maggior Consiglio often took five years to reach consensus. “If you need any more material from me to aid them in their deliberations, you have only to ask.”

  “You have already provided ample,” said Trevisan. “I cannot imagine what more they would need from you.”

  “I am pleased to have given you something of worth.” Di Santo-Germano paused as the thunder trundled closer. “A bad time for masts.”

  “True enough. Many of the ships are moored in the Bacino di San Marco, away from the docks and quays, to lessen the chance of fire. And men are posted to the Arsenal, to douse any flames that are ignited. Rain or no rain, lightning fires burn fiercely.” He finished his wine and achieved a slight smile. “May the Saints be thanked that, with drinking water so scarce in Venezia, we can enjoy such good wines.”

  “True enough,” said di Santo-Germano, a wry turn to his mouth.

  “Although I see you do not drink,” said Trevisan as he set his glass down.

  “Alas, no; I do not drink wine. I haven’t the stomach for it.” He did not add that he had no stomach at all; he went to pour a second helping for his guest. “Do not let my incapacity stop you.”

  “It is an excellent wine,” Trevisan allowed. “I thank you for your generosity.”

  “Someone must drink it,” said di Santo-Germano at his most urbane. “If you find it so much to your taste, then it pleases me to pour it for you.”

  Trevisan drank, swallowing twice, then set the glass aside again. “The Collegio and the Minor Consiglio have authorized me to inform you that the Doge will hold a feast in your honor in ten days’ time—well before the time you have named for your departure to the north. It is hoped that the Maggior Consiglio will pay attention to this distinction being shown to you.”