“Again, this is nothing remarkable,” Saint-Germain pointed out, and waited for a response.
“The under-cook said the man spoke in Italian.” He looked directly at Saint-Germain. “We may have been followed.”
After a brief moment of consideration, Saint-Germain nodded once. “So we may,” he agreed.
Text of a letter from Gennaro Emerenzio to Deodato Chiuventan, of La Fortunata, Campo San Jaccopo, Venezia.
To the most worthy Deodato Chiuventan of La Fortunata, the greetings of Gennaro Emerenzio, business factor, accompanied by the sum of two hundred thirty-six ducats in full and complete discharging of my debt to your establishment, and an additional one hundred twenty ducats to ensure my continuing welcome at your establishment.
I am enclosing copies of letters of payment to all those players to whom I am also indebted, showing that the sums have been paid in total, and that I have no further debts to discharge to any patrons of your most excellent gaming house. The full amount is over six hundred ducats—a considerable amount, I will agree—which each man will inform you they have their share in hand.
I am certain I will not encounter another such run of bad luck, and if the Saints do not favor my endeavors, I will pledge to remain more current in my debts than has been the case for the last four months. I have access to a fairly large sum of money at present that should tide me over any more disappointing periods.
I am thankful to you for keeping my name from being enrolled with the debtors of the city, for that would surely end my business as factor and agent for many merchants, which would, in turn, necessitate my absence from the city for at least ten years, to vacate the debt. Other misfortunes would attend on such a calamity. My property would be seized and all my goods sold, and that would not have allowed me to repay one-tenth of what I owed, for as a man of business, I have pledged to put the interests of my clients above my own, and this surety would be meaningless were I shown to be unable to fulfill the office with which I have been entrusted. This way, I remain of good character, my business may continue, and my patrons will be able to collect the sums I have held in trust within a reasonable length of time, for I assume that most of them, being absent from La Serenissima, will not all of them demand a full accounting at one and the same time.
If you will be good enough to sign or mark with witness the acknowledgment of receipt of the monies as described above, and give that receipt to my courier, I will express my thanks to you in person at your tables within the week. I thank you for your patience, and it pleases me that you can benefit because of it.
In the certainty that you will honor our prior arrangements,
I sign myself,
Your most devoted and grateful
Gennaro Emerenzio
in Venezia, on the 3rdday of March, 1531
5
Ink darkened the lines of the hand, his nails, and his cuticles that he held out to Saint-Germain. He was perhaps forty years old, with a noticeable limp due to an unflexing ankle; his clothes were of good quality, but worn. His collar had been turned at least once, and the edges of his lace cuffs were frayed. “Mercutius Christermann,” he said, adding, “printer by trade, and seeking employment.” He looked around the vestibule in Saint-Germain’s Amsterdam house, still filled with covered furniture and unopened boxes. “I’ve been told that you’re new to the city, and that you are the owner of Eclipse Press for Ancient Studies, or some such name.”
“I have not been here in some while, but my press has done its work without me,” said Saint-Germain, making a gesture of dismissal to Ruthger, who had admitted the stranger to the house. He contemplated this unexpected arrival, thinking back to what the supervisor of his press had told him since his arrival two days ago. “I will not remain here long, myself. I have business in Antwerp to which I must return. Willelme Klasse supervises the press here, as I suppose you know. Perhaps you should speak with him.”
“Does that mean I am wasting my time, then?” Christermann asked. “Without an endorsement from you, it is unlikely that he would take me on.”
“To do what? As I have not yet heard what you are seeking, I am in no position to recommend you to anyone,” said Saint-Germain, nodding in the direction of the front parlor. “Tell me what you are seeking, and I may be of use to you—and you to me. If you do not mind the drapes, I will ask you to sit down.”
Christermann considered the shrouded settees and shrugged. “If there are no insects …”
“None that I am aware of, but I have only been here a few days, and not all my property has caught up with me, nor has my household been able to attend to opening the house completely.” He looked about the room. “I have as much as is here because this house has long been owned by those of my blood, and I did not have to fully refurnish it.”
“And there are more people arriving from Lisbon every day, seeking refuge from their ruined city,” said Christermann.
“That there are,” Saint-Germain agreed. “If the earthquake was only half as bad as the stories make it seem, it was dreadful.”
“There will be books written about it,” said Christermann, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger to show his perspicacity.
“And you intend to be part of it,” said Saint-Germain.
“As you must, as well, or why are you refurbishing your house?”
“Hardly refurbishing, merely making comfortable. The chairs are old-fashioned, but sufficiently comfortable for our purposes—or they were.” He chose a high-backed, shallow-seated chair, plucked the muslin drape off it, and inspected the chair beneath. “New upholstery would be wise,” he said to himself.
Christermann laughed, and dropped down on a settee, not bothering to remove the drape. “Not when one has ink everywhere,” he declared.
“No doubt,” said Saint-Germain. He waited and watched his visitor closely.
“I’ll be direct,” said Christermann when his host made not further comment. “I should expect you know that I am seeking work.”
“So I surmised,” said Saint-Germain, an air of polite curiosity about him.
“I am from Amsterdam, and only recently have I returned here, and that return was not wholly my choosing. Still, it is good that I’m home.” He paused a moment as if to recruit his strength, then went firmly on. “Until a year ago I was employed in Liege, and all was going well in my work, but then the publisher brought out a pair of books, one that was said to be from ancient texts, disputing certain biblical accounts and events, which was bad enough—the Church and the Protestants denounced it—but not content with that, he prepared a text on various contemporary theories that run counter to the tenets of Christian faith, regarding the nature of the heavens, and that raised such an uproar that all in his employ had to flee or answer to the courts.” He coughed. “I, as supervising pressman, was one among a dozen who were facing a Process, and so, before that could begin, I departed with little more than the clothes on my back, and a dozen coins in my wallet.”
“Have you a family?” Saint-Germain asked. “Are they safe?”
“I have a brother and two sisters; one of the sisters lives here in Amsterdam with a husband who will not receive me—that is because he fears the Holy Office more than my sister’s wrath. My other sister is married to a merchant and living just at present in Hamburgh; that is where I may go, if I have to leave Amsterdam, as I fear I soon must if I find no employment, as I have no wish to be a beggar, not in these hard times. My brother is a strict observance Cistercian monk, and that means that he has left the world; he has taken a vow of silence, along with all the rest. My wife and children died during the summer fevers, three years ago, in Liege. In the space of six weeks, they all died.” His genial features grew sad and he looked toward the curtained window. “I had a son and a daughter, and my wife was pregnant. That was a great loss, my family.”
“For whom you still grieve,” said Saint-Germain gently.
The printer hardly seemed to hear him. “You know how tho
se plagues spread: the weavers took the fever first—that was a bad blow to Liege—and then the vendors of foods and goods, and from them to the city’s tradesmen. At least the Lisbon earthquake was swift, not measured as the Plague is. My wife was stricken first in our family, becoming ill two days before I did. She insisted on nursing our children until she collapsed. Three days later she was dead. The older child did not outlive her by a week.”
“Do you hold yourself accountable for their loss?” Saint-Germain asked, no trace of censure in his voice.
“That I do,” he admitted. He lapsed into silence again. Finally he cleared his throat and went on, “I would like to think that you are willing to consider giving me work; I know how to run any press you may have. That is no idle boast, and I will prove it to your satisfaction if you like. I am told that you aren’t much influenced by the Church, or its policies.”
“Not when I can afford not to be,” said Saint-Germain.
“Oh, a clever one,” said Christermann. “That speaks well of you. Certainly you are wise to be cautious. Who knows? I may be a spy for the Church, come to find out if you are helping the causes of the Godless.”
Saint-Germain smiled briefly. “Not with such hands as those. Whatever else you are, you are most certainly a printer. What you believe is for you to settle with your own conscience.”
Christermann held up his hands. “I take your meaning, Grav; these hands are the work of years. You are right: I have been a printer for over two decades.” He lowered his hands, continuing doggedly. “Whatever else I may be, as you said, you may be sure that I am seeking work, and with a publisher who is not in danger of being closed by order of the Bishop or the Spanish.”
“So far, I remain unscathed,” said Saint-Germain, regarding Christermann with increased speculation. “However I must tell you that my company is under scrutiny, and my situation may change abruptly. If such uncertainty is unacceptable to you, then I would advise you to look elsewhere.”
“That scrutiny is extended to all makers of books wherever the Church has influence,” said Christermann with a tremendous sigh.
“So I am informed,” Saint-Germain remarked. “I may be more closely than some, because I am a foreigner.”
“And a rich one, from what I have been told, as well as one who supports Guilds; you have the good opinion of many who print books,” said Christermann with a bluntness that surprised Saint-German. Apparently Christermann noticed this for he went on, “If you will pardon me for my candor, I would be grateful for your graciousness, and were I in a position to do so, I would not have imposed upon you in this way. But as I’ve told you, I am in urgent need of work, or I will have to leave the Lowlands—leave or starve at menial employment—and I would rather not have to give up the little I have left. That, and I would prefer to remain in Amsterdam, if I am able to earn a living; Amsterdam is my home, and since I have only this place to hold me now that my family is dead … The Guild will accept me, and I need not learn a new language at this point in my life.”
“I can understand your desires,” said Saint-Germain. “I know how compelling native earth can be.”
Christermann uttered a single chuckle. “A nice turn of phrase, that. I must remember it.”
“You are most kind,” said Saint-Germain, reaching for a little brass bell to summon Ruthger. “If you will permit me to offer you some food and drink, we can discuss this further. I am inclined to hear you out.”
The shine in Christermann’s eyes made it clear that he was hungry, and although he was unused to receiving such flattering invitations from anyone—let alone a foreign nobleman—he was too famished to consider the impropriety of accepting. “I … I hope that I’m not innicting—”
“It is hardly that if you and I are discussing what work you have done.” He glanced toward the door as Ruthger tapped on it, then opened it just enough to provide room for himself.
“My master?” He stood very straight, his reserved manner making a favorable impression on Christermann, who often judged nobles by the hauteur of their servants.
“This printer is Mercutius Christermann, quite experienced, as you may see by his hands. If you will have the cook prepare some pork and turnips with onions, and bring cheese and beer, I would appreciate it.” Saint-Germain paused. “Is there bread ready yet?” He saw Ruthger’s nod. “Very good: bread and fresh butter to start, I think.”
“Of course. And perhaps a little fried fish, to go with the bread?” Ruthger suggested.
“An excellent notion,” Saint-Germain approved. “As you see, the man is hungry.”
“Then I will tell the cooks to hasten,” said Ruthger, then hurried away.
Christermann studied Saint-Germain. “You are being most hospitable. That’s unusual.”
“I am not responsible for others’ lack of courtesy,” said Saint-Germain in a tone that did not invite inquiry.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” said Christermann quickly, worried that he had over-stepped himself more than he had done already.
Saint-Germain held up his hand. “I am not offended: believe this.”
Nodding emphatically, Christermann said, “I will.” He stared around the room. “Your house has a broad front.”
“And several steps, all of which I can afford,” said Saint-Germain, his dark eyes showing a glint of amusement. “It was built to my … great-uncle’s specifications almost eighty years ago.”
“Did the city tax on building width and the number of steps then, or has it happened since the house was built?” Christermann asked.
“I do not believe my great-uncle bothered himself with such matters,” Saint-Germain replied, managing to sound completely disinterested.
“If such things do not concern you, then you must be wealthier than rumors say you are, and that is—”
“—a matter for gossip, to be revised and improved in the telling.” Saint-Germain made a gesture of dismissal. “Suffice it to say, I can afford to pay another printer without putting myself at a disadvantage, and without asking you to work for apprentice’s wages.” He achieved a look of great indifference. “You have many years of printing to your credit, and that must command respect. If you will, I would like to know something of what you have done, and for whom, and the names of those with whom you have worked.” For an instant he hesitated, then went on, “If you would also tell me how you made yourself bold enough to approach me personally, I would consider that a sign of good intent.”
Christermann’s face darkened, and he glanced toward the window in confusion. “If you would … My situation is … Matters are despera—That is, I don’t …” Finally he went silent.
Saint-Germain moved to a chair near the window, so that the shine of day was behind him, casting his face into shadow. “Suppose you start again?” he suggested gently. “I can see you are a printer, and I know from the condition of your clothing that you need money, but there are many reasons to account for that, and I would like to know the whole of it.”
“I have told you the truth,” said Christermann, his shoulders hunching in spite of himself.
“Some of it,” Saint-Germain corrected cordially. “It is the rest that interests me—what you have omitted from your account.”
“I have told you—” Christermann began, only to stop himself.
“You have told me as much as you believe you must; I am more interested in what you have left out,” said Saint-Germain with easy patience. “Your family died three years ago, you said? And you were in Liege until last year? You were working for a printer of suspect books?”
“Yes. My brother-in-law,” said Christermann as if confessing to a crime.
“He kept you on after his sister died?” Saint-Germain asked.
“He did, albeit grudgingly. He held me responsible for her death, and our children’s, but I was the best printer that he had ever had working his press, the Guild supported me, and he kept me working for him as long as he was able. When he let me go, it was because he wa
s in trouble.”
“Because the Church became dissatisfied with the books he produced,” said Saint-Germain.
“That is what happened.” Christermann was becoming defensive.
“I am certain of it,” said Saint-Germain. “I know Gilpin Purviance, at least by reputation; he is known to be reliable and intelligent. I was pleased to hear that he had got out of Liege, but sorry that he has had to go so far to be secure. Still, he is free, which many another printer is not.”
For several minutes Christermann said nothing; then, “Gilpin Purviance is my brother-in-law, it is true.” At last he looked at Saint-Germain, but could not make out his expression, for the light behind him obscured his features. “What more do you know?”
“I know you agreed to sign an admission of wrong-doing before you fled, and that in Liege there is a price on your life, as there is on Purviance’s, since you did not, as it turns out, actually sign the admission. I know you were considered an audacious fellow for turning against your wife’s brother, and that the Guildmaster was advised to sanction you, but did not. Officially the Spanish and the Church may pronounce the Anathema on you without any protest from the Guild, although they did not expel you. With the Holy Office seeking you, finding work must be extremely difficult.” Saint-Germain let Christermann reflect on this before going on. “I did not recognize you at first, if that is what you think, but I knew enough of what happened in Liege to be able to deduce who you must be when you had told me about your work. Printing and book-making is a very small community, for all the leagues it covers, and little goes on in it that all the publishing world does not know of it.”
Christermann sighed. “Then you will not engage me.”
“Have I said so?” Saint-Germain rose as Ruthger returned with a well-laden tray in his hands. “First, eat. Then we must talk. But you must not withhold information, for that makes both of us vulnerable.”
Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 19
