“Yes, I do have other concerns, but not just at present.” He looked up into her face. “What has happened to make you come here?”
“A misfortune—you need not be concerned about it.” She was about to get to her feet when Saint-Germain said, “You came here for a purpose; I am curious to know what that was, and why you have changed your mind.”
She stared up at him, then forced herself to direct her gaze elsewhere. “Oh, dear.” Erneste took the slate-blue edge of the triangular outer sleeve of her vaya and began to pleat the fine-woven sayette between her fingers, pressing hard at the fabric while she strove to regain her composure, and extricate herself from the awkwardness into which she now realized she had plunged herself. With her concentration on her fingers, she said distantly, “It’s my aunt.”
“Aunt Evangeline?” he asked to be certain. “Has anything happened to her?”
She gave a single, tiny nod. “She’s … she’s unwell. I’m worried about her. She needs a physician, you see, and—” Impatiently she wiped her eyes. “I apologize for this most unseemly—”
“Her condition must be serious indeed for you to come here on her behalf, risking gossip,” Saint-Germain interrupted softly, the last of his statement ending on an upward note.
“I fear she may die, she is so lethargic and disoriented,” said Erneste softly, and began to cry, not loudly but with such poignance that he was astonished.
“Deme, Deme, do not—”
“I know she will die. I cannot doubt it,” she said quickly, dropping the sleeve and leaning heavily on the upholstered arm of the settee. “I hoped that she would be well, with good physicians and nursing, but they will not take her in at Saint Anne’s Church, where her cloisters are: they won’t take any of them in.” She wiped her face with trembling fingers. “I asked the Mother Superior to reconsider, for mercy and charity’s sake, but she said she could not, that her hands were tied.”
“And why should they be?” Saint-Germain asked, wondering if Erneste’s association with him might account for such a refusal.
“You recall, sixteen days ago, there was an uprising, mostly of women?” Erneste did not go on.
“The riot about a wool-house in a churchyard?”
Erneste nodded. “Yes; my aunt was with the wool-workers, the women who sought to keep the wool-house. She has encouraged the women in the past, and when needed, she has worked with them, carding and spinning. The women were to have a wool-house of their own: the Guild had given provisional agreement, but then there was trouble, and fighting broke out. During the second assault, my aunt was struck by a cudgel on the head and shoulder and in the body, and she was forced to leave the confrontation. She could not go to any physician, for the Church would not permit physicians to offer their services to an insurrectionist—those who did risked heavy fines.”
“A difficult situation for anyone hurt, I should think,” said Saint-Germain.
She sighed abruptly. “I took her into my rooms, against the wishes of the householder; I paid him extra, and I set about nursing her as best I could, although I am not very adept at such things.”
“I should think you would give excellent care,” said Saint-Germain, and saw her attempt a wobbly smile.
“Thank you, Grav.” She glanced toward the nearest tree of oil-lamps, then back at him. “The night before last, the householder said we must leave, and had all our goods loaded into a cart; he said he would have to pay a fine if we remained under his roof. When I asked him where we were to go, he said it wasn’t his concern, and that so long as we were gone from his house, he would be satisfied.”
“Why did you not send me word of this?” Saint-Germain asked, anticipating the answer.
“I have already imposed too much upon you. Were I not desperate, I would not be here now, but I could think of no one else.” She dabbed the hem of her sleeve at her eyes. “I’m sorry to be so wanting in—”
“Your weeping does not affront me; I am more disturbed that you did not come to me last night,” he said. “Where did you go?”
This time Erneste took four deep breaths before she answered. “There is an inn of sorts near the major warehouses, called The Grey Tern, and it is a place that takes in all comers, if they have money to pay.” She swallowed hard. “I procured a room with a parlor on the third floor for a week—I paid the porters to carry our belongings and my aunt up to the rooms, and bought a special meal for her, so that she would not have to bestir herself.”
“Did you have to leave any belongings behind?” Saint-Germain inquired.
“The householder said he would relinquish them to me when I found suitable housing,” she said, a bit startled by the question.
“Perhaps he will reconsider, and release them to my care, on your behalf,” said Saint-Germain genially enough, but with a purposeful note in his voice. He softened his next query. “How did your aunt fare in this new setting?”
Erneste’s face grew more somber. “For most of yesterday, she seemed to improve. Her fever lessened and her color brightened, and she could walk on her own, if slowly. But by evening, she began vomiting, and the substance of it was brown and thick and ropey.” She put her hand to her mouth as if to stop her own words. “She has lost her balance on three occasions and her thoughts are jumbled and unsteady. When I offered her the medicine I had purchased for her relief, she accused me of trying … to poison her. She struck my hand away, and then she fell on the floor, and refused to get up. I went to Saint Anne’s again on her behalf, and they would do nothing, having been forbidden by the Church to assist any of the rebellious women—that is what they are calling the women now: rebels—and to report any woman with suspicious wounds to the authorities. There are hundreds of such women in the city, denied succor and shelter because of their stand.” She put a hand to her cheek. “Oh, Lord. God forgive me. I shouldn’t have come here. Grav, I apologize for bringing this to you. I didn’t think: you may be accused of giving comfort to the rebel women, and there are fines being imposed for doing that.” As she said this last her weeping grew more extreme. “I don’t know what to do, Grav. I haven’t thought of anything I might do to—”
Ruthger’s tap on the half-open door shocked them both. Saint-Germain rose and turned. “Do come in. I trust you have the wine?”
“I do,” said Ruthger, and added in the dialect of Yang-Chau, “I took the liberty of adding a few drops of your composing tincture. I doubt she’ll taste it.” He handed over the tankard on a small tray, while he continued in Dutch, “The staff are worried. Is there anything you want to tell them?”
“Tell them only that Deme van Amsteljaxter has come to request aid for her aunt, who is badly hurt.”
“That should suffice,” said Ruthger.
Saint-Germain regarded Ruthger thoughtfully. “I think it may be wise to put together a case of medicaments for me. If you will?”
“Certainly. What do you want in the case?” Ruthger watched Saint-Germain hand the tankard to Erneste, then added, “Whom are you treating, and for what malady?”
“I believe Seur Evangeline has sustained inward injuries and is suffering from a severe blow to the head as well. So my sovereign remedy should be included, and tinctures of pansy and of willow, along with a vial of milk-thistle infusion, ground Angelica-root for a tea, and a cup of syrup of poppies in spirits of wine. That should do for a start.” He frowned as he reviewed this in his mind, adding, “Anodyne unguents as well, and a roll of linen bandages.”
Erneste had taken a generous sip of the wine, but she turned to stare in dismay at Saint-Germain’s remark. “Bandages? You are going to bleed her? Because I bled her yesterday, and she seems not to have made a full recovery from it, though she said it did her good.”
“No,” said Saint-Germain, “I will not bleed her, Deme; I doubt it would benefit her to be bled a second time. But her head has been bludgeoned, and her skull may need the protection a bandage may provide. When a head has been struck, often the bones need to be shielded from other hurts.”
He disliked having to be less than candid with Erneste, but he knew that at this time candor would be an unkindness and serve no useful purpose.
Erneste sighed. “Oh. Yes. I hadn’t thought of that.” She took a longer draught of the heated wine, saying, “You have put cloves in it. It’s very good.”
Saint-Germain gave a quick, one-sided smile, knowing that Ruthger had found a way to completely disguise the taste of the composer. “I trust it is to your taste, Deme?”
“Oh, yes,” said Erneste, taking another sip to demonstrate her approval; a faint trace of color appeared on her lips.
Ruthger gave a crisp little bow. “Thank you, Deme van Amsteljaxter.” He glanced at Saint-Germain. “Is there anything else, my master, or shall I go to prepare your case?”
“You may go,” said Saint-Germain; Ruthger left the room, taking care to set the door ajar, aware of the implications a closed door would create. “If you have no objections, I will accompany you to see your aunt—after you finish the wine. I hope I may have something among my medicaments that will relieve her suffering.”
“Would you treat her? I know she needs more expert care than mine, and you have some experience of treating wounds, haven’t you?” she asked, her eyes once again filling with tears. She shook her head as if to rid herself of her weeping. “I’m so sorry.”
“You have no reason to be,” Saint-Germain assured her, reaching out to steady the wine-tankard in her hand.
She was silent for a long moment. “If I had thought this through, I wouldn’t have come here. I beg your pardon for—”
“You have nothing for which to apologize, Deme van Amsteljaxter.” He saw that this repeated assurance had not convinced her, so he continued. “In fact I might well have been offended if you had sought out anyone else during this difficult time. I take this as a token of trust, and I thank you for it.”
“Are you telling me this as a means to ease me, or do you truly mean it?” she asked, staring up at him.
“Certainly I meant it. Did you not want help from me?” His question was gently posed, and he did not press her for an answer while she drank again. “Erneste?”
A little more color brightened her cheeks at the use of her name. “I do want your help, Grav, but I hope you will not be—”
He spoke without indignation or choler, but with a calm sadness. “What must you think I am, to suppose I would impose my desires upon you as a condition of caring for your aunt.”
“Oh, no,” she said, flustered. “That isn’t what I meant—”
“Is it not.” He studied her for a long moment, no censure in his gaze.
She schooled herself to better behavior. “I intended no discourtesy. But you see, Grav, I have nothing to pay for your care, whatever it may be.” She hesitated. “You have been generous in the shares you have given me in publishing my book, but with all that has happened, and my brother needing money, I have very little left, and I will have nothing to provide us shelter and food if you must be paid.” She looked him directly in the eyes. “But I cannot ask you to work without recompense, and so I must find something to offer you in exchange for your—”
“Impose no qualifications upon your pledges that you cannot fulfill,” Saint-Germain advised her, his voice low and tranquil.
“But it is unfair to expect—”
“Perhaps it is, but it is my decision to make, not yours. And it is my decision to help your aunt—you have not coerced me, or cozened me.” He lifted one of her hands and brushed his lips over the knuckles. “What others may or may not do is not your responsibility, and so you have no reason to take that on yourself.”
She stared at him, shaken by what he had said. “I can understand how a man of your position might decide such a thing, but I have not your good fortune, and I must answer for the welfare of others in this world. My aunt depends upon me now, and my brother. I cannot refuse them.” She finished her wine in a manner of one concluding a debate.
“Then I fear you will bring yourself much needless grief,” he told her kindly as he held out his hand to assist her to rise.
“Such is the legacy of all women,” said Erneste with a fatalism she would not have displayed had she been less fatigued and had not drunk such a generous portion of wine. She put her hand into his and allowed him to assist her to rise. Then she bit her underlip. “I … I fear The Grey Tern may not be the sort of hostelry you are accustomed to.”
“I have, in my time, spent the night in caves and in hovels, and on many occasions I have slept in barns and under hayricks,” he said, an ironic light at the back of his dark eyes as he recalled some of the less savory places he had taken shelter during his long years of life, places that he did not mention to Erneste. “A dockside inn will not offend my sensibilities. I hope you will not trouble yourself over such things.”
Erneste made another attempt at a real smile. “Thank you; I should have realized you would be gracious.”
Centuries earlier he would have been tempted to give a jocular answer, but over the long decades—now numbering over twelve thousand decades—he had learned not to mock those who were suffering, so he only said, “If you will tell me how we are to find the place—”
“It will be fastest to travel by canal, if you have a boat we may use?”
Saint-Germain sighed at the prospect of having to travel over running water, and resigned himself to the vertigo it would cause even with the lining of his native earth in the boat. “I have the services of a boatman and his craft. I will send Ruthger to summon Piet to meet us as soon as he can bring his craft. I trust you will be able to guide him?”
“Oh, yes. Then we should reach her before the end of the hour.” Erneste rubbed her hands on her inner sleeves. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Grav. I pray you may not have cause to regret this decision.”
Saint-Germain crossed the room to close the shutters, his demeanor composed as he fixed the latches. “I may, but not nearly so much as I would regret doing nothing.” He returned to her side and knelt to pick up her coif. “You may want to put this on again. Or I have a hooded cloak you could borrow, if you like.”
She took the coif and stared at it, noticing the blood for the first time. “My aunt’s,” she said as if astonished to see it; she turned to Saint-Germain. “If you don’t mind, I would like to borrow the cloak. I didn’t realize that—” She held up the coif so that Saint-Germain could see the blood.
“Certainly,” said Saint-Germain. “If you will stay here, I will fetch it along with my case of medicaments.”
Confusion almost overcame her again. “Oh, no, Grav. I didn’t mean … You shouldn’t have to—”
“Deme, I have some instructions to issue to this household, a few provisions to make. I will return as quickly as I am able. If you like, you may choose something to read in my absence.” He offered her a slight bow and before she could speak again, he stepped back into the corridor, and went off to his laboratory, where he found Ruthger standing in front of his ancient red-lacquer chest, placing the last of the rolls of bandages in his small leather case.
Without turning, Ruthger said, “I have sent for Piet.”
Saint-Germain smiled quickly. “Thank you, old friend: you anticipate my every need.”
“Then allow me another expectancy, and order rooms prepared for Deme van Amsteljaxter and her Aunt Evangeline.” He closed the case and buckled it, then moved back and closed the red-lacquer chest. “I have this ready.”
“After all these years I should not be astonished, but I am,” said Saint-Germain as he took the case from Ruthger.
A suggestion of amusement shone in Ruthger’s faded-blue eyes. “No, my master, you should not be.”
“Then I will rest assured that all will be prepared when I return later this evening, although I cannot yet tell you what hour that is apt to happen.” He nodded once and was about to depart when something more occurred to him. “If it is possible, there should be a supper ready for the women—soup, perhaps—something that can
simmer for some time.”
“I will attend to it.” Ruthger was still for an instant, then reached inside his doublet and brought out a letter. “This was brought by Kees at the warehouse a short while ago. He said it was carried by a special messenger from Antwerp.”
Saint-Germain took it, studying the handwriting on the address. “I will read it later this evening.” As he went out of the laboratory he wondered allowed, “What can Giovanni Boromeo want that is so urgent?”
Text of a letter from James Belfountain in Antwerp to Grav Saint-Germain in Amsterdam, written in English, carried by three of his men and delivered three days after it was written.
To the Grav Saint-Germain presently in Amsterdam, the greetings of James Belfountain presently at The Two Gold Lambs in Antwerp, on this, the 21stday of June, 1531.
My esteemed Grav, I have received the sum of seventy ducats and your letter from your messenger in partial payment for the escort by me and four of my men for you and your manservant from this city to Mestre in the Most Serene Republic, to be accomplished at as great a speed as horses and circumstances will allow. Your proposal of payment of twenty ducats a day for the journey, not including food and lodging, is acceptable, and will count against the monies I have in hand from you. I also accept your offer of a bonus of twenty ducats apiece if the journey can be made in less than ten days, barring acts of God, or of His followers.
We will provide a limited remuda, with a single remount for each of the group. I and my men will provide arms for the journey, which will be included in the daily hire, except if we should have to engage any armed opponents: in that case, the daily hire will double for that day, and you will pay for the replacement of any arms, armor, horses, or other equipment lost in such conflict.
You will carry sufficient money to permit us to procure remounts on the road as needed. Needs of shelter and food are to be my concern, and I will dispatch men at once to make suitable arrangements along the road, whose services as scouts will be included in their pay; a reckoning of these totals will be rendered upon our reaching Mestre.
Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 24
