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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“Here; let me help you,” she said, and pushed herself up on one elbow in order to get out of her guimpe, which she cast onto the floor without hesitation or care. “Now. I’m ready.”

  “No; you are not,” he said, amusement and desire coloring his voice. “In time you will be.”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts. “But I’m getting cold,” she exclaimed.

  “That will not do,” he said, and moved over the top of her, leaving only a tiny space between them, just enough room to allow him to slide his hand in to caress her, starting with her shoulders and making his way deliciously down to her breasts.

  As her arousal heightened, she began to make a low, purring sound, ardent and content at once. Her body became pliant, ductile, and more exoptable than she had believed possible. Gradually his searching of her flesh became more fervid as she gave herself over to the rapture she felt surge within her. It was as if he had ignited tiny, ecstatic fires everywhere he touched her, and as the seraphic conflagration immersed all her senses, she succumbed to a release that began in the core of her body and spread to the farthest reaches of her soul while di Santo-Germano encompassed all her passion in the haven of his arms. She strove to find words for what had just transpired, but could only say, “The fur on your collar tickles.”

  Di Santo-Germano took off his chamarre and wrapped it around her shoulders, shifting his posture so that they lay side by side amid the pillows on the couch. “You gave me a remarkable gift, Pier-Ariana.”

  “Nothing you haven’t had before,” she reminded him.

  “No; this time you gave me all of yourself—there is no treasure greater than that.”

  She mused over this, and said, “Then in some way, I have had all of you, as well?”

  “I hope so,” he said, kissing her closed eyes.

  If she was aware that his response was indirect, she did not question it; she lay back on the pillows, the wolf-fur of his chamarre and his nearness blending with the fire to warm her into sleep.

  Text of a letter from James Belfountain in Calais, France, to Grav Saint-Germain, in care of Conte di Santo-Germano, in Venezia, written in English and delivered eleven days after it was sent.

  To the most excellent Count of Saint-Germain, in the care of his kinsman, di Santo-Germano at the Campo San Luca, Venice, the greetings of James Belfountain, on this, the 19thday of October, 1531, from Calais, and entrusted to Yeoville to carry to you on his way south to Rome.

  First, Count, I wish to reassure you that the strongbox and documents you entrusted to me and four of my men has been successfully delivered to Rudolph Eschen, advocate in Amsterdam. I have his receipt enclosed with this letter, and his acknowledgment of your instructions in regard to various Venetian ventures. I thank you for entrusting me and my men with this mission, for work has been hard to find of late, what with many seeking our services also demanding religious uniformity of one sort or another, a guarantee I am unable to make. Between the demands of those offering employment, and the siphoning off of my men to one divine’s army or guard, or the Pope’s forces, my Company is sadly depleted. I have not more than twenty men left, and most of them are planning to depart. Your generosity has made it possible for me to send my men away with enough money to assure them, with a little prudence, that they will make it through the winter.

  I have been summoned home to England. It appears that my next-older brother has been disinherited and disowned by my father, a development I learned of only a few months ago, and now my eldest brother has died of a fever, and I have become the heir In order to reconcile with my father as much as I am able to, I am now preparing to take ship, in the hope that when I finally assume his title and his responsibilities, I will have a good understanding of what I must do. Timothy Mercer is coming with me, to be my guard and companion as I make my way to Derbyshire. I will be glad to have a familiar face with me, for I feel I may be a stranger when I reach my native shore.

  It will be disquieting to see the family again, for I have not laid eyes upon any of them for all of sixteen years. You, as a much-traveled man, know what it is to be long away from a place, and doubtless you will understand that my elation is mixed with anxiety. I am sure both will pass in time. What might not pass is all the habits I have acquired in the last dozen years of fighting for hire. The family have asked that I make no specific mention of my Company, and I will try to oblige them, but I fear that may be harder to do than anyone—including myself—supposes.

  I would like to express my appreciation to you for your openhandedness and your reliability during our various associations. If ever you should be in England, you will always be welcome at Baxbury Poges; I do not suppose you will visit, though, not with King Henry and the Pope at such loggerheads as they are. At least this dispute is about a woman, and not about God’s meaning in His Word.

  With my assurance of my high regard,

  I sign myself for the last time,

  James Belfountain

  8

  Two of the Savii as well as five members of the Minor Consiglio along with three advocates and a dozen witnesses attended the hearing of di Santo-Germano’s petition and the accompanying complaint against the Venezian business factor, Gennaro Emerenzio. The room designated for this proceeding was on the second floor, not officially a courtroom, but in the building housing the secondary law courts, for it had not yet been determined what crime—if any—had been committed in the jurisdiction. Emerenzio was represented by Atanagio Moliner; Consiglier Decimo Ziane served as moderator for the presentation of witnesses. Di Santo-Germano had retained Thaddeo Valentin, a promising young advocate with a reputation for meticulousness.

  The morning—a fine, glistening autumn day with a rollicking breeze batting puffy clouds over the sky, but with chilly shadows—had begun well enough, with a parade of servants and gamesters all testifying that they had dealings with the absent Gennaro Emerenzio, and knew that when he was short of money, he would come upon a windfall that would enable him to continue gambling. There was a clear connection between the times that various of di Santo-Germano’s enterprises suffered unaccountable set-backs and Emerenzio’s remarkable infusions of money, while, although circumstantial, was good cause for suspicion, particularly since Emerenzio was no place to be found. In response, Moliner had parried these testimonies with witnesses such as Ulrico Baradin, the paper-broker, who claimed that most of di Santo-Germano’s wealth was the result of confabulation among those who did not know him well; then Eugenio, who had served in di Santo-Germano’s house and spied on him for the Consiglio, threw suspicion on di Santo-Germano’s political sympathies, stating that the foreigner still maintained all manner of ties to foreign places in manners not beneficial to Venezia. The first mate of the Aphrodite, one of the Tedeshi’s fleet, contended that, contrary to rumor, di Santo-Germano had not paid a full ransom for the crew of that ship when it was taken by corsairs, but only half the nine hundred ducats demanded for the men’s release.

  Consiglier Decimo Ziane, a man of forty-five with a shock of gray hair and a distinguished manner, listened to the testimony, then consulted the standing clock in the far corner. “How much more of this do you intend to offer to this hearing?”

  “We have four more witnesses, and a possible fifth,” said Valentin. “You have heard from di Santo-Germano’s stewards and his printer, as well as the record-keepers at various gambling houses. I have yet to call Sanson Micheletta of the Casetta Santa Perpetua, and Padre Egidio Duradante, who is—”

  Ziane raised his hand. “We are all aware who Padre Duradante is.”

  Valentin bowed slightly. “Of course, of course. I meant nothing disrespectful.” He indicated di Santo-Germano, seated alone in the rear of the room on an upholstered bench reserved for complainants. “I trust you will not hold my inept remark against the man I represent.”

  “Understood.” He looked at the first mate of the Aphrodite, saying, “As the men were taken from a Tedeschi ship, I am astonished that di Santo-Germano paid any portion
of the ransom, let alone half of it.” He nodded to the advocates as the first mate rose from the Witnesses’ Chair. “Pray continue.” Ziane sat back in his chair, straightening his official cap as he did.

  “I will also call Baltassare Fentrin, who was steward to di Santo-Germano’s mistress, and knows what hardships she faced as Emerenzio took the monies granted her for his own use.” He bowed slightly. “Also, I will call Lilio, her cook, who remained with her until there was no money left, to describe the depredations Emerenzio’s thefts made upon her, and the reason he is convinced that Emerenzio has taken all the funds entrusted to him and absconded with them.”

  “That’s four,” said Ziane. “Who is the possible fifth?”

  “Consiglier Orso Fosian.” This statement caused a moment of silence in the room, which Valentin finally ended by saying, “He has agreed to speak on this matter, and on the character of di Santo-Germano.”

  “Di Santo-Germano must be a commendable foreigner, to have a Consiglier appear on his behalf,” said Moliner, raising his voice theatrically.

  “Di Santo-Germano has conducted himself in a manner beyond reproach,” said Valentin. “Consiglieri should recognize honorable dealings when they encounter such, as an example to others.”

  “Prego, Signori,” said Ziane, “and you, Moliner—whom do you wish to call?” His manner was offhanded but his authority completely clear.

  “I have four more witnesses to call, Consiglier Ziane.”

  Ziane considered all this, occasionally squinting as he assessed his options. After almost five minutes, he said, “We will continue for another hour, and then stop for prandium and the midday rest. We will resume at four-of-the-clock. Call your witness, Valentin.”

  “Sanson Micheletta: I call Sanson Micheletta of the Casetta Santa Perpetua,” said Valentin, glancing over his shoulder at di Santo-Germano to keep from looking at the witness, who rose from his chair and came reluctantly forward. “If you will, take the Witnesses’ Chair.”

  Although he was ill-at-ease, Sanson did as he was told, crossed himself and vowed before God and the Repubblica, as a true Venezian, to speak the truth and only the truth.

  “You are the owner and manager of the Casetta Santa Perpetua?” Valentin asked.

  “I am the manager; my share in the Casetta Santa Perpetua is forty percent.” He tugged on the peplums of his doublet.

  “And you are familiar with Gennaro Emerenzio?”

  “He has lost a considerable amount at my dice-tables,” said Sanson.

  “Would you say he lost more than he could afford to lose?” Moliner asked, beginning his turn at questioning.

  “Every month,” said Sanson, trying to appear more comfortable than he was.

  “Why do you assume that, if he regularly loses large amounts?” Moliner made his inquiry sound like an accusation.

  “Because he is a business factor,” Sanson said as if the answer must be obvious to everyone, “and I know of no other in his profession who can regularly lose a hundred ducats without suffering for such extravagance.”

  “But he paid his debts,” Valentin began to pace, covering the space between the horseshoe-shaped array of chairs.

  “Yes—sometimes he takes longer than is advisable, but he has always paid.” Sanson cleared his throat and stared at the open shutters.

  “Did he make settlements in large sums?” Valentin pursued. “In amounts in excess of fifty ducats, shall we say?”

  “Every quarter or so, he would settle all his debts and begin accumulating new ones,” said Sanson, adding, “He is one of those for whom gambling is a possession, almost a sickness that he cannot be cured of, no matter what remedy is tried. He ought to be exorcized, for unless he is, he will continue to gamble, though it be for wooden tokens, or pretty pebbles.”

  “Did he tell you where his money came from?” Moliner approached the Witnesses’ Chair, his face determined.

  Di Santo-Germano moved forward on the bench, his full attention on what Sanson was saying.

  “He had no reason to do so,” said Sanson, “although he has often boasted that he has been paid a bonus for his good work. He told me once that he could, if he wished to, ruin more than a dozen men in Venezia, all of them rich foreigners.”

  “Did you have any reason to doubt him—that he had been paid a generous bonus?” Moliner loomed over Sanson as he answered.

  “I know of few men who have so many bonuses, or in such amounts as he has claimed. I had no doubts about his ability to ruin foreigners, either.”

  Valentin took over once more. “Then—given your understanding of this man and his situation—have you any idea of how he has come by the money he has used to pay debts?”

  Sanson shrugged, a gesture made graceless by nervousness. “I thought he was probably raking the trust accounts in his care: that would be the easiest way to line his pockets.”

  “By raking, you mean he was stealing from these accounts?” Valentin stopped pacing as he waited for the answer.

  “Yes. I mean stealing.”

  Ziane leaned forward, looking directly at Sanson. “Did you suspect this, and yet failed to report it?”

  Now Sanson was squirming. “I had no proof, only supposition,” he said by way of excusing this lapse.

  “I see,” said Ziane, and motioned for the advocates to get on with it.

  “I have nothing more to ask just now,” said Moliner.

  “Nor I,” said Valentin. “Not now.”

  “Then we will hear another witness,” said Ziane.

  Moliner called Christofo Sen, and began by asking him if he had kept any records pertaining to di Santo-Germano.

  “Of course. As I do of all foreigners in Venezia,” he said crisply.

  “Then you were aware that he has a number of business interests in Venezia?”

  “I am. We have information on all of them.” He nodded to Ziane. “I have presented that material, along with all the rest, to the Doge and the Minor Consiglio twice a year.”

  “I am aware of your excellent service,” said Ziane, and signaled Valentin to commence.

  Sitting very still, di Santo-Germano wondered how Moliner had managed to shift the emphasis of the hearing from Emerenzio to him, making it appear that he deserved to have his fortune plundered. He had seen this kind of maneuvering several times in the past, and although it cast him in an unfavorable light, he was able to admire the skill required to have this persuasive impact.

  “You say you reviewed di Santo-Germano’s accounts—did you discover any irregularities about any of them?”

  “He appears to have lost a great deal of money suddenly. But merchants do have occasional high losses; every year, some few merchants endure serious failures. That is the nature of trading.” Christofo Sen put his hands together as if to absolve himself from any malfeasance in the business.

  “Did you have any reason to suppose that his factor had any part in these losses?” Moliner asked.

  “Why should I have had?” Sen countered.

  “And at no time did you think it necessary to inspect the manner in which Signor’ Emerenzio kept his records?” Moliner all but pounced on the words.

  Sen cleared his throat. “I did not.”

  From the back of the room di Santo-Germano regarded Christofo Sen with intense curiosity, aware that there was something askew about his testimony; he watched the witness, looking for small mannerisms to betray him.

  Valentin began his question with disarming mildness. “Why is that—because di Santo-Germano is a foreigner?”

  “I would say that is not the primary reason: no,” Christofo Sen answered coolly, lacing his hands together. “The man has many diverse investments, and it isn’t reasonable to think that every one of them is flourishing.” He glowered toward the shadowy corner where di Santo-Germano sat. “I know you have been most generous here in Venezia, and often I have wondered why.”

  “I will ask him that at the conclusion of our hearing,” said Moliner, earning a look of
remonstrance from Ziane.

  “So it might be that you were less diligent with di Santo-Germano’s records than you were with—shall we say—Consiglier Ziane’s records?” Valentin bowed his pardon to Ziane.

  “I would not say less diligent, but perhaps not so well-informed, given that much of his money was not in this city,” Christofo Sen declared. “I have little intelligence on his businesses away from Venezia, except what he chooses to report.”

  “Did you do anything that might compromise di Santo-Germano in your records?” Moliner asked.

  “Not that I am aware of,” said Sen, a look of unctuous satisfaction spreading over his visage.

  “And you are satisfied that you could not specifically identify the thief as Gennaro Emerenzio?” Moliner folded his hands in a display of patience.

  Sen glared at di Santo-Germano a second time, his gaze piercing the darkness as if to bring fell deeds to light. “If there was any theft, I could not determine its source.”

  Valentin studied Christofo Sen for a long moment, then asked, “Do you have any reason to hold di Santo-Germano in such contempt as you appear to do?”

  “I do not hold him in contempt,” said Sen.

  “But you have said you agree with those who assert that di Santo-Germano had a hand in the kidnapping of your nephew, Leoncio, have you not? For I have a witness who has heard you say that.” He cocked his head toward the keystone of the horseshoe chairs, where Consiglier Fosian sat.

  “I may have said I counted him among several who might be inclined to harm my family. Why do you ask such things?” Sen stamped his foot, half-rising to do so. “It is hard enough that the lad should be missing, but to know nothing of what has become of him is the cruelest—”

  Moliner was about to speak but Consiglier Ziane interrupted him. “What reason did you suppose di Santo-Germano might have to abduct your nephew?”

  Sen seemed at a loss for an answer. “I should have supposed it was for ransom. My family would pay a great deal for Leoncio’s return, and after all, di Santo-Germano’s fortune is sadly depleted. Demanding a ransom for a youth from a good family would swiftly fill his coffers.”