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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “The pork-and-turnips is cooking,” Ruthger said as he put the tray down. “The dish will be ready shortly.”

  Christermann seized the wire cheese-slicer and set to work, sectioning off three irregular slices with a speed that demonstrated his hunger.

  “I am pleased to hear it,” said Saint-Germain, then added, “Will you send the steward on an errand for me?”

  “Bogardt van Leun is just now setting up the wine-cellar,” said Ruthger. “Would you want him to complete that task before—”

  “I am sure the cook can supervise the servants,” Saint-Germain replied. “I want information from the Printers’ Guild.”

  “So!” Ruthger exclaimed. “I see why you want an Amsterdamer to go.”

  “It is hardly surprising, given how insular this city can be,” said Saint-Germain, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes, and added, “The Guild has provided me only the most minimal information.”

  “What is van Leun to do there?”

  “Inquire about the standing of this Mercutius Christermann,” said Saint-Germain, his eyes snapping in the direction of the middle-aged man who was starting to devour a slab of new bread thickly buttered with a small wooden paddle, and a wedge of cheese.

  “Is there anything you want to know beyond the usual information?” Ruthger inquired.

  “No; unless there is something the Guild wishes to pass on to me, something that may have bearing on Christermann’s standing in the Guild. Otherwise I know enough of his history to have a good notion of what dangers he may present.” He motioned Ruthger away, adding, “Tell van Leun sooner is better than later.”

  “Certainly, my master,” said Ruthger with a slight shift in expression that might have been a smile.

  “You understand me too well, old friend,” Saint-Germain murmured as Ruthger withdrew and closed the door. He stood still for a moment, then returned to the chair with its back to the window.

  “This is very good,” Christermann said as he wolfed down another thick slice of bread.

  “I should trust so,” said Saint-Germain, watching Christermann eat, aware that the man was now a little flushed.

  When he had finished a second wedge of cheese and drank down half the pale, shining beer, Christermann wiped his mouth with the long strip of linen provided. “A foreign touch, this cloth; some of the French use them in Liege. Most of us use our cuffs.” He studied the black smudges his hands left on the linen. “I apologize for that, but it can’t be helped.”

  “It is the badge of your trade, and one I am inclined to honor,” said Saint-Germain. “Now tell me: have you ever printed music books before, or are you limited to texts? You need not explain the difference to me; I am familiar with them. I want only to know your experience.”

  Christermann accepted this readily, answering as if reciting from memory. “I have done a music book only once, and it was a very difficult process, that I will say, through no fault of the music. It’s amazing that the book ever was finished, what with the composer changing his mind every few days and demanding that whole lines of notes be reset. We altered more than twenty-six pages to his order, and even then he wasn’t satisfied.” He cut another slice of cheese, taking care to peel off the rind before biting energetically into it. Chewing, he said, “I know how the pages are set for music, but I prefer that I stay with words.”

  “There are always hazards,” said Saint-Germain. “You are fortunate if setting new pages is the worst of them.”

  “Anathema, for instance? or prison?” Christermann looked away. “Hazards: you call them that?”

  “Why, yes, as I would call a severe storm, or a bad winter, or a famine, or a plague a hazard,” Saint-Germain said with hard-won tranquility as his long memories roiled.

  “What of war and slaughter?” Christermann challenged. “For surely such are coming.”

  “I fear you are right,” said Saint-Germain. “They are hazards, too, and the more unfortunate because many of them are avoidable.”

  Christermann laughed out loud, with a total disregard for proper social conduct. “You are a foreigner, and from what I have heard, an exile, and you can still say that?”

  “I most of all,” Saint-Germain responded quietly.

  Giving a shrug, Christermann shifted on the settee and reached for the glass-sided tankard of beer. “Then you are a more reasonable man than I am.” With that, he drank all that was left in three large gulps. “Most men in your position would not be so … reasonable.”

  “I am somewhat more experienced than most, perhaps,” said Saint-Germain with a deferential nod.

  Christermann leaned back. “Will you employ me?”

  “That is a very blunt question for a man in your position,” said Saint-Germain at his most genial, refusing to be pressured.

  “It is my position that makes me blunt,” said Christermann, studying the contents of the tray as if trying to determine what he ought to do about the remaining food. Deciding, he took the last of the cheese and bit into it, pursing his lips as he chewed.

  “Do not worry,” said Saint-Germain. “You will not go hungry here.”

  Caught off-guard, Christermann managed a chagrined-but-muffled chuckle. “No doubt you have the right of it; you have been most generous so far.” He swallowed hard and added, “Don’t think I am unaware of the courtesy you are showing me.”

  “It is the least I can do for you,” Saint-Germain said, noticing how cautious Christermann was under his air of bonhomie.

  “Out of hospitality,” said Christermann.

  “At the least,” Saint-Germain agreed.

  The silence that settled between them was only superficially comfortable, and could not long be sustained. “I am willing to work, Grav, and I will be loyal,” said Christermann.

  “I have no doubt that you have excellent intentions,” said Saint-Germain, not adding his own reservations as to what those intentions might be.

  “Then why do you—” He stopped as Ruthger again came into the parlor, this time carrying another, heavier tray with a covered dish upon it, and a larger pitcher of beer.

  “The rest of the meal,” said Ruthger, setting this down and removing the first tray with a proficiency that seemed almost magical.

  “Very good. And when you have a chance, bring a pot of China tea and a jug of fresh milk.” Saint-Germain nodded toward Christermann. “I hope this is to your liking.”

  Christermann had reached for the deep spoon set on the tray and then pulled a knife from his wallet, using the latter to cut the pork. “Very tender,” he approved. “And very moist. Pork so often dries in the cooking.” As if to make a point, he jabbed the point of the knife into the largest of his slices and held it up, juices running down the blade and onto his fingers.

  “Enjoy your meal,” Saint-Germain said, then gestured Ruthger to come to his side. “While you are out, I have a second errand for you.”

  “Tell me what it is,” said Ruthger, in Byzantine Greek.

  “Call at the house by Holy Trinity Church. You know the one I mean,” Saint-Germain said, still speaking the Amsterdam dialect. “Ask the man there if he will call here tomorrow.”

  Ruthger bowed slightly. “As you wish, my master,” he said, still in the Constantinopolitan tongue.

  “Thank you; let me know as soon as you have returned.” He dismissed Ruthger, then looked back at Christermann. “When you are finished, we will conclude our business.”

  Christermann managed to grin as he chewed. “I am at your disposal, Grav.”

  “That is very good of you,” said Saint-Germain, wondering if Christermann would be so sanguine if he were aware that the house where Ruthger would call after he spoke to the Guildmaster of the Printers, following van Leun’s introduction, belonged to the most formidable advocate in all of Amsterdam—the house of Rudolph Eschen.

  Text of a letter from Basilio Cuor in Amsterdam to Christofo Sen in Venice, written in secular Latin, carried by private courier, and delivered ten days after i
t was written.

  To the highly esteemed and most puissant secretary of the Savii agli Ordini in la Serenissima Repubblica Veneziana, Christofo Sen, the greetings of your most devoted servant Basilio Cuor, from the dismal city of Amsterdam, from Het Bouw Tavern hard by Saint Stephen’s Church.

  Say what they will about the canals, this place is no more like Venezia than it is like the distant ports of Araby—perhaps less, for here it is cold, and the merchants are like clergymen in appearance and manner. Never would Tiberio Tedeschi be permitted to wear his gaudy silk robes here, and the good burghers are not the sort of men to ceremonially marry the North Sea as the Doge does the Adriatic. But it is a city built on trade, they have that much in common with Venezia, and at the canal-side taverns you may hear languages from across the world spoken. Last night I had a bottle of Alsatian wine with two sailors from Poland, and a white-haired devil from Denmark. Sailors are much like sailors the world over, I would guess. From China to the barbarians of the New World, sailors face the same perils for the same purpose, and that makes them more similar than dissimilar. They all told stories about the Lisbon earthquake, saying that more than ten thousand are dead from it, and each trying to best the last with tales of more horrors.

  Franzicco di Santo-Germano is indeed here in Amsterdam. He has two trading companies I am certain of, and a publishing business called Eclipse Press. He calls many of his businesses Eclipse for his heraldic device. From what I have learned, he is prosperous, and although they call him Grav and not Conte, and Saint-Germain instead of Santo-Germano, he is clearly the same man, and he has the same manservant he kept with him in Venezia. I know di Santo-Germano has been to Bruges and Antwerp, and apparently is returning to Antwerp shortly.

  I have been able to intercept five letters from Venezia sent to di Santo-Germano, three from his mistress. I am pleased to tell you that he knows nothing of her present plight, and with a little ingenuity, I should be able to continue my efforts for another month or so. At present, with di Santo-Germano so much a foreigner here, I am able to pass myself off as one of his household, at least to the satisfaction of the various couriers who come here, since they keep very regular hours, which makes my tasks much easier.

  Nothing di Santo-Germano has done so far has made me believe he is doing anything contrary to Venezian interests. His most outrageous activity is book-making, and that is known to local authorities as well the Spaniards who serve here on behalf of the King of Spain, and the Catholic Church. There are rumors that his press may be seized, but so far, nothing of that sort has happened to him; however, one of his pressmen has been summoned to the local tribunal to answer some questions. I am going to drink with the soldiers from Spain tonight, and I will try to learn more when I do.

  I hope your nephew’s scheme to drive di Santo-Germano’s business agent into ruin will succeed. Relying on gambling as a means of fortune, good or ill, is undertaking more risk than I would advise, and your nephew would not appear to have the resolve to keep to his intentions. I am not there to help you, and so far, your nephew has been unable to compromise Pier-Ariana Salier, as well as drive Emerenzio to the kind of desperation you require. Perhaps if La Salier could be proven a harlot, then Emerenzio would not have to resort to embezzlement to gain control of di Santo-Germano’s fortune. A pity the Conte will have to lose his lady and his money, but what can an exile expect?

  May the Carnival bring you joy and the deliverance of Easter fill you with the love of Christ, for the glory of our faith.

  With my pledge to continue to inform you,

  In singular dedication to you, the Savii agli Ordini, the Minor

  Consiglio, the Maggior Consiglio, and the Repubblica

  Veneziana,

  Basilio Cuor

  By his own hand in Amsterdam, the 26thday of March, 1531

  6

  With a laugh that sounded like an unrosined bow dragged over old strings, Leoncio Sen reached out audaciously to take hold of Pier-Ariana. “Your fidelity is misplaced, ninotta, believe me. Your Conte has left you, and no one will think the less of you for taking anoth—”

  “How dare you!” She rounded on him, her eyes shining with fury.

  Leoncio offered his best placating smile. “I mean you no disrespect, ninotta, only the assurance that you need not suffer if you would prefer not—”

  Pier-Ariana shrieked to shut out the words she dreaded might be true, and reached for a small vase of red-and-gold glass, preparing to throw it at her most unwelcome visitor. “You have said as much as I have any desire to hear: now I want you out! Leave!”

  “I am not ready to go,” he said smoothly, confidently. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”

  “Go! Or I will summon help.”

  “Which of your two remaining servants do you expect will escort me?” Leoncio taunted, reveling in his power over her. “The old woman or the—”

  The vase shattered on the wall a handsbreadth from his head, and Pier-Ariana, her face distorted in fury, rushed toward the door, shouting, “Lilio! Lilio! Lilio! And bring a cleaver when you come!” She could not keep from weeping; she felt her face blotch with red and she wanted more than ever to get this velvet-clad interloper out of her house. “Out of my house!” she shrieked, trembling with the force of her rage. “Out!”

  Leoncio took a step away from her. “You’re overwrought. Small wonder, to be treated so shabbily. If di Santo-Germano were a Veneziano, you might have some recourse against him. As it is, you are entirely dependent upon his provisions for you, and that has not been … all you expected, has it? Only your ’tirewoman and your cook are left, and I understand they are owed money. They won’t be able to stay with you forever, no matter how much they may wish to. With the Conte away, how can you keep this house? You must soon be out on—”

  “I have a deed of occupancy; the only thing I cannot do is sell this house—otherwise it is mine; I will manage my affairs as seems wisest,” she was goaded into saying as she tried to wipe the tears off her face with her inner sleeves. “The deed is fixed; it was ratified for fifty years before di Santo-Germano left.” She could see the craftiness in Leoncio’s eyes and regretted having said so much.

  “How very generous of him, to give you the gift but then not provide the means to keep it.” His sneer made his features ugly; he forced himself to offer a more concerned look. “Still, it may not be his fault: he may have come to some misfortune. We don’t know what the disaster in Lisbon may have done to his holdings there. He may have lost ships and warehouses, as has happened to many another. He may have forfeited contracts along with his losses.”

  “He may,” she said, somewhat uncertainly, tears still shining on her face.

  “And you are showing him respect by not abandoning him, which is to your credit.” Leoncio nodded. “I have spoken with his business agent—Gennaro Emerenzio; you must know him?—and he has said that the Conte’s accounts are all seriously depleted.”

  “I don’t believe him!” Pier-Ariana burst out.

  Leoncio regarded her slyly. “Because you have better information? Have you a secret that will provide for you?”

  “Even if I had such a secret, I wouldn’t need it.” She tossed her head. “Because I know that di Santo-Germano has many business interests, and bad as the Lisbon tragedy was, his losses there did not represent the whole of his wealth.”

  “He boasted and you believed him,” said Leoncio, shaking his head.

  Pier-Ariana closed her eyes, nauseated by the spurious kindness Leoncio conveyed with his mendacious interest. “Signor’ Sen, I have nothing more to tell you; please leave my house,” she said in as calm a voice as she could summon.

  “If you insist, I will,” he said. “But I ask you to keep my offer in mind: I would gladly take on your maintenance rather than see you on the street or in debtors’ prison, which must happen if the Conte does not provide relief for you soon.”

  “It will not come to that,” she said, marshaling her dignity.

 
“Madama?” Lilio said from the door. He held his cleaver in his hand, but not raised to strike. “You called me?”

  “Yes, Lilio, I did. Signor’ Sen is just leaving. If you would be good enough to escort him out?”

  “Certainly, if that is your wish,” said the cook, his manner less confident than his words.

  “It is,” she said, moving aside so Leoncio could depart without getting any nearer to her. Her shoes crunched on the broken vase; she did her best to ignore it.

  As he reached the door, Leoncio lowered his head politely. “I go for now, but will return, ninotta; never fear.” Satisfied with his mission, he left her alone in her house, strolling away into the peachtinged afternoon light made sparkling by a faint gauze of fog in the city. He was very well-pleased with what he had accomplished during his visit to Pier-Ariana. He had suspected that di Santo-Germano might have left a secret cache of funds with her, but that seemed not to be the case, unless Pier-Ariana were cleverer than she seemed, and therefore Emerenzio would soon be reduced to ruin and would become his creature or end up working a galley oar. Given Emerenzio’s age and position, Leoncio was reasonably certain that the business agent would prefer to have to serve him privately than face public humiliation, to say nothing of the consequences of his sleight-of-hand with other men’s money. This would mean that he—Leoncio Sen, the wastrel, the gambler, the feckless, the man everyone said was incapable of doing serious work—could finally demonstrate his usefulness to the Savii, and earn the good opinion of his uncle. At last he would be a man of position, respected and powerful, not a lackey to Christofo, not an unprofitable expense, not an embarrassment, not a family obligation, but a family vindication. The family would be proud of him, and no one would speak ill of him again. He began to whistle as he walked, paying little attention to the crowd around him, and in a short while he reached the handsome Casetta Santa Perpetua, where he was admitted and shown to the larger of the gamblers’ parlors, escorted by a page displaying so much deference that those watching might suppose Leoncio to be the scion of a wealthy merchant.