That said, I must ask that you keep what I tell you in confidence. My circumstances are precarious and may become dangerous in the near future, if there is no change here in Tabor—although I must stipulate that I am at Grussenwald, the Landsmacht’s estate, three leagues from Tabor itself, which has proven fortunate in the last months. This region has been subjected to religious turmoil of late, and the most recent upheaval has come from the Hussites, who follow the preaching of Jan Hus: he may have been burned at the stake more than a century ago, but his presence in this area is still growing, and there are frequent clashes among his adherents, those who are committed to the teaching of John Calvin, and those who remain faithful to the Roman Catholic Church.
Two years ago I made the mistake of publishing a tract on the inconsistency inherent in killing in the name of Jesus, the Christ, Who deplored all aggression in His flock. This document was seized upon by various preachers and priests and denounced as heretical by all the factions currently in dispute. Until last Easter, the Landsmacht was willing to support me, but he has recently been taken by the zeal of Martin Luther, and has therefore given me a year to find other employment, which I am more than willing to do, but I cannot safely leave the protection of Grussenwald, for then nothing could stop the clergy of the region—Catholic and Protestant alike—from condemning me for apostasy of one sort or another. He is making himself ready for the End of Days.
I write to you in the hope that you will secure some degree of present immunity from persecution for me. I have no wish to be imprisoned, which I fear I must be if I remain where I am, yet I can find no place where I might avoid the hazards of religious struggles; everywhere I turn, I see men in arms over faith, and I despair. This may be a more accepting region than some, but that acceptance can vanish in an instant, and zeal take its place. If you have any recommendations to make, I will give them my whole attention, with the pledge that I will be prepared to go a great distance in order to secure the peace and indemnity my studies demand.
Let me extend my gratitude to you in advance of any action you may take on my behalf, for I have been much disappointed in the obdurate rejection I have encountered from many in the last several months. I pray you are all that my sister has told me you are, and that you will comprehend my present difficulties. If my supplication is not repugnant to you, I ask that you respond to my inquiry as soon as it is convenient for you to do so. I am daily made aware of the Lands-macht’s increasing rancor with me; I begin to fear that he regrets his generosity, and will dismiss me out-of-hand, which must expose me to every kind of peril.
If you are minded to aid me, anything you offer would be most gratefully accepted, and sooner rather than later, for I am becoming desperate. For my sister’s sake, I implore you not to dismiss my plight.
In hope and with my highest regard,
I am, Your Excellency,
Wholly at your service,
Onfroi van Amsteljaxter
By my own hand at Grussenwald, nr. Tabor, on the border of Bohemia and Moravia, on this, the 20thday of July, 1530 A.D.
9
Pier-Ariana was still trying to hold back tears, but her efforts were no longer successful; she clutched her long, deep-green cloak wrapped tightly about her, and peered up at the moon, in its shrinking third quarter, hanging above Venezia, casting a feeble luminescence over the sleeping city. A slow, calm wind out of the southeast ruffled her loosely braided hair and toyed with the hem of her cloak. “I wish you would wait until dawn,” she said with a wobbly smile. “I wish … Oh, Conte, I cannot help but wish that …” She could not let herself go on.
“I know,” he said, so gently that her tears increased. Although it was dark, his elegant black dogaline-and-doublet caught the torchlight, the silver threads in the exposed lining of the dogaline and the heavy links of his pectoral collar shining more than the moon.
“If you could wait a while—until everyone goes in for prandium,” she appealed to him. Her eyes shone like opals where the torchlight struck her gathering tears. “It’s not so long. You could do that, couldn’t you—wait until prandium?”
“That would mean crossing the lagoon at midday. You know running water and tides in full sunlight can be difficult for me,” di Santo-Germano said, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. His pectoral device swung with the movement, one of the raised, silver wings brushing her hand. “You have nothing to fear in my absence; you will want for nothing.”
“But for you,” she said, and stuffed her knuckles into her mouth to keep from crying in earnest.
“My master,” Ruggier called softly from the stairs to the narrow canal; three dark shapes waited in the channel, piled with chests and crates and luggage. “The barges are filled and ready; Milano has his boatmen in position to take us across the lagoon.” There were four squat boats in a line, each with its nose shoved against a barge, each boat with four oarsmen and a steersman—large, strong men, all of them, hired to propel the barges that were so essential to Venezia’s survival.
“A moment, old friend,” di Santo-Germano answered. “I fear Signorina Salier is dismayed; she is in need of comfort.” As he spoke, he realized that any comfort Pier-Ariana might have could not come from him. “Is there someone you would want with you now? You told me you preferred to remain alone, but if you have changed your mind, I will arrange for—”
“Oh, go,” she exclaimed abruptly, exasperation and misery vying for the uppermost of her emotions. “Do not prolong your leaving—it only makes it worse. I don’t want you to go, and I’m trying to postpone the moment until you cannot leave at all.” She pressed her lips together to stop them trembling, then hurried on, “Don’t send for anyone—not my cousins, not my aunt, nor my step-brother, who would not leave his family on my account, or welcome me into his. None of them are you, di Santo-Germano. No one can take your place.” She hissed through her clenched teeth. “I hate this.”
“Cara donna,” said di Santo-Germano, reaching for her hands, and bending to kiss her palms, knowing he could not ease her sorrow. “Perhaps I should not have asked you to come to see me off.”
She gazed at him. “No, you were right to let me wish you a safe journey. That’s not it.” Her eyes filled again. “Why must it be the Lowlands? Why not some harsher place? Maestro Willaert has made the Lowlands seem such a captivating country, full of handsome men and beautiful women.”
“Maestro Willaert is an exile, carissima, and he imbues his city of origin with the best of his memories,” said di Santo-Germano. “He has made Venezia his home now, and it shows in his music.”
“You are also an exile, and you do not say such things of your former country,” she reminded him, as if catching him in a fault.
“Ah, but Pier-Ariana, I have been gone longer,” he said with light, ironic amusement; he had been gone for thirty-three centuries. “You cannot compare our circumstances.”
“My master,” Ruggier prompted.
“A moment,” di Santo-Germano said. “Until I am sure that Signorina Salier is willing to let me go.”
“Oh, no. I will not be willing, Conte, not ever. But I will become resigned.” She tried to pull her hands from him, then gave a sob and flung herself into his arms. “Promise you will return to me. Promise!”
“I have given you my Word, carissima. Unless a catastrophe intervenes, I will fulfill my bond. You will not be wholly without good friends. Giovanni Boromeo will stand by you, and Consiglier Fosian.”
“As a favor to you,” she said. “Who would be my friend if not for you?” She was appalled at the suggestion of a whine that had crept into her voice, and she stared past him. “I should not be so paltry.”
As if he had not heard the last, di Santo-Germano said, “Anyone who loves fine music would befriend you, Pier-Ariana, and count himself honored.” He kissed her eyes, finding the taste of her tears vexing, for they punctuated her distress at his departure. “I have no wish to sadden you.”
“Then remain here; do not go to the Lowlands
at all,” she pleaded even as she pushed herself out of his embrace. “I know; I know you can’t stay,” she went on, stifling her weeping with a visible effort. “But I wish with all my heart that you would.”
“I am truly sorry I must disappoint you,” he said, sensing Ruggier’s growing urgency as the eastern sky began to pale.
“Yes, I know. But you must. And you told me this would come. You have done all that you may to prepare me.” She took another step back from him. “You said you would send me letters while you’re away.”
“I will,” he vowed.
“If you fail me—” She stopped. “You have always been straightforward and honorable with me, and so I trust you will be so while you are gone.”
Di Santo-Germano met her gaze steadily. “Gennaro Emerenzio has my instructions, and so does Orso Fosian. If you have complaint of anyone, you have only to speak with one of them and they shall address it, or explain to the Collegio why they do not. Both men will see that you are—”
“—looked after. Yes, I know,” she said again in undisguised aggravation. “I have no reason for complaint, but—” She put her hands to her face as she began to cry again. “Devil take this horrible weakness,” she muttered unsteadily.
“Pier-Ariana,” he began, starting toward her.
“Oh, go. Go. Go!” She wrenched herself around so that she could not look at him. “I will not embarrass either of us any longer.” Saying that, she swept across the loggia toward the reception room; in a moment Niccola was stumbling after her, half-asleep and uncertain where his duty lay.
“We should be under way,” Ruggier said quietly. “Dawn is advancing, and the Black Cross Company will be waiting.”
“I know,” said di Santo-Germano as he glanced toward the reception-room door in time to see it swing closed. He shook his head once, a minute motion that was intended for his own understanding and none other’s.
Ruggier pointed to a small chest on the longest barge. “I think you will find that most tolerable for our short voyage.”
Di Santo-Germano pressed his lips together, then went to sit on the chest Ruggier had indicated, one of several that contained his native earth. “I hope the instrument-maker delivers her four-octave-and-five hammered dulcimer this afternoon; he is supposed to do so. I trust she will find consolation in the music she makes upon it.”
“Do you suppose she will want to play even so remarkable an instrument as that? All things considered?” Ruggier asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper as the boats pushing the barges shoved away from the steps of di Santo-Germano’s house.
“She is a gifted musician; playing will mitigate her unhappiness,” said di Santo-Germano, a flicker of discomfort crossing his attractive, irregular features as the impact of the water took him. “It grieves me to cause her distress, but if I spare her, I put others at risk on my account, and as I cannot abandon her, so I cannot abandon them, either.” He spoke in the language of Visigothic Spain as he glanced over his shoulder at the receding front of his landing steps.
“You have mentioned that before,” said Ruggier, his accent slightly better than di Santo-Germano’s.
“And you have been kind enough to listen,” said di Santo-Germano, his dark eyes unreadable in the fading night. “I apologize.”
“There is no reason you should,” said Ruggier. “I would be more troubled if you did not have to wrestle with yourself.” He stepped toward the front of the barge and lifted his lantern, the better to see the narrow canal as they slid along the dark passage.
The barges emerged into the Gran’ Canale, the boats pushing them taking full advantage of the light traffic on the water to make an easy sweep; they turned eastward toward the Pont’ Rialto. Once clear of the islands, they would head across the lagoon to Mestre where James Belfountain and his men would meet them. The Gran’ Canale bowed around to the north and then turned westerly, bringing them beyond the Rialto Islands and into the lagoon, where they bore northward, the boats pushing the barges making slow but steady progress toward the shore as the eastern sky filled with the glow of an August sunrise heralded by a consort of gulls’ cries. Slowly the shape of the distant hills emerged from the early morning haze.
The Mestre docks were busy already, the long shadows of dawn shimmering pink-gold where the new light touched them. At the jumble of piers, moorings, and docks, many barges were being loaded to carry the daily provender across the lagoon; others were picking up barrels of water and of wine, casks of oil, wooden tubs of butter, wheels of cheese, sacks of flour, firewood, as well as cages of live animals bound for the slaughterhouses beyond San Nicolo dei Mendicoli. The shouts and whistles drowned out the screech of the gulls that flocked to snap up bits of vegetables that had fallen from their barges. A few coasting traders were tied up in the deeper water of the harbor, waiting for this first flurry of the day to take on the cargo they would carry southward to Fusina and Chioggia, to Comacchio and Ravenna, Cervia and Rimini, or eastward to Caorle, Grado, and Trieste.
Milano guided di Santo-Germano’s barges to a fairly quiet dock, and shouted for the porters waiting there to lend a hand, adding as incentive, “A fiorin d’argent for each man who works at the transfer. A ducat to share among you if you finish unloading before Mass is complete at Santa Maria del Mare!” He flicked his hand in the direction of the old church just beyond the docks and warehouses, then he turned back to the barges. “When the barges are secured, you may all find a tavern for something to refresh you; Milano has the funds to cover the cost of a good meal for each of you.”
On the docks, five men scrambled toward the barges, a few of them calling to comrades, one shouting, “Where do you want these chests and crates taken?”
Di Santo-Germano steadied himself, and called out, “There should be a wagon-maker in the street that fronts the docks. The man is called Ideo Albergo: he will have wagons with him—four wagons, and two spare teams of horses. These chests and crates and boxes go into those wagons.”
“We saw him,” one of the porters shouted, and spat as he pointed behind him. “By the inn. With a group of English fighting men.”
“That will be the very man,” di Santo-Germano said as he flipped a couple copper coins to the porters, and then picked his way across the gangplank to the relative safety of the docks where he stood a long moment to wait until his vertigo passed. Pulling several fiori d’argent from his wallet, he knew he had the full attention of the porters. “Do you see the man in the dove-gray wool livery? on the largest barge?” He pointed to Ruggier. “Take your orders from him. I am going to summon the wagon-maker and the soldiers to move the wagons nearer, so you will not have to drag the crates and chests very far.”
This brought affronted grunts from the porters, but they took the proffered coins and made for the gangplank, calling out for instructions.
Di Santo-Germano went off toward the street, feeling stronger with each step as he put the water behind him and once again trod the earth. He was adjusting his soft silken hat as he came around the end of the dock’s warehouse onto the cobbles of the street and caught sight of a group of men in cuirasses, all holding horses while they drank their morning wine in front of a small tavern. Just beyond them, a nervous man with big shoulders in loose linen sleeves shoving out the arms of a much-marked leather cote sat on the box of a new wagon, three more lined up behind him. Di Santo-Germano took his eclipse-pectoral and held it aloft. “You there!” His voice carried well without becoming harsh.
A few of the armed men turned at the sound of his voice, and the wagon-maker was almost comically relieved; it was he who shouted, “Conte! Is that you?”
“It is,” said di Santo-Germano, moving more swiftly without apparently lengthening his stride. He looked about, asking in English, “Who among you is Belfountain?”
A man of medium height with an ugly, uneven scar running across his forehead and over the bridge of his nose stepped forward. “I’m James Belfountain,” he said in an accent that put his home in the mi
ddle of the island. “You’re Saint-Germain?”
“Or di Santo-Germano, whichever you prefer,” he answered. “I am pleased to meet you. These are your men?”
“Most of them. There’s three still at the tavern, breaking their fast,” said Belfountain, hitching his thumb in the direction of the three-story building in the shade of Santa Maria del Mare. “I can summon them at once, if you like.”
“Let them eat. The wagons have yet to be loaded.” He took a black-leather purse that hung from his belt and handed it to Belfountain. “As we agreed.”
Without apology, Belfountain began to count the gold coins the purse contained. “Fifty gold florins?”
“You will find there are fifty-five-against unanticipated expenses,” said di Santo-Germano, and continued toward the wagon-maker, addressing him in the Venetian dialect. “Signor’ Ideo Albergo?”
“Oho,” said Belfountain with a sudden brightening of his expression as he continued his count. “Good enough.”
“Conte,” said Albergo, sinking back against the high back of his seat. “You come in a fine hour.”
“The soldiers will not hurt you,” said di Santo-Germano. “If they have harmed you in any way, they will answer for it.”
“No, no, they haven’t,” said Albergo, looking about nervously. “I was worried that they might seize my wagons if you failed to come.” He tugged on a rein, and one of the four flaxen-maned, liver-chestnuts raised his head, mouthing the bit. “They’d certainly want the horses.”
Di Santo-Germano kept his thoughts to himself as he said, “Yes. No doubt. Most knights find dray horses make good mounts, and these teams look to be fine animals.”
“I had the tack from Porphirio Dandin, as you ordered. He said this is the best he has. There are ten sacks of grain in the fourth wagon, along with leather for patching, and two spare sets of reins. Also an anvil and ten horseshoes.” Albergo cleared his throat. “I arrived before dawn, and I have been waiting. The English soldiers make matters very bad.”
Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 12
