The Relic Master

by Christopher Buckley

  “We received your letter. Mm!”

  The little man appeared to have a vocal tic.

  “The letter? Oh, yes. That. Well, it was just to say . . .”

  Dismas interposed, nearly shouldering Dürer aside. He bowed deeply to Rostang.

  “Permit me. I am Rufus. Chamberlain to the Count. As you can see, my master is quite overcome. He has been fasting and at prayer since we arrived in Chambéry. And we have had a long journey from Schramberg.”

  “Of course. Of course. Mm!”

  Rostang was an older man, in his late fifties, tall, slender, and elegant with a perfectly trimmed beard, white as snow, inquisitive but not unfriendly eyes, and a nose so long that he tilted his head backward as if looking down a gunsight.

  “But we were not expecting you!” he said with an air of mortification.

  “No, we sent no word,” Rufus/Dismas said. “My master the Count is here as a simple pilgrim. One pilgrim among many. His letter to your master was a formal courtesy. He wanted only to convey his most fraternal feelings. And of course, those of his godfather, he who is soon to become His Imperial Highness.”

  Rostang’s gaze skipped from one to another in the entourage.

  “And these?”

  “Those three are servants. Sister Hildegard is of the Order of Cosmas and Damian.”

  “Cosmas and Damian.”

  “Patron saints of apothecary. German order.”

  “Ah. Mm!”

  “She attends at my master’s household in Schramberg. He thought it prudent to bring her on pilgrimage, the journey being long and taxing to the health.”

  “Yes. Mm! My master is most eager to greet your lord. Again, if only we had known, we would have prepared a worthy reception.”

  “Please.” Dismas smiled. “You are too gracious. We are well content here in the gardens. The air is salubrious beneath the open sky. And his royal highness is surely busy with a thousand details in preparation for the Holy Exposition of the Shroud. And we see that you have a royal guest. The Duke of Urbino. We chanced to witness his progress into the city. Such splendor!”

  Dismas caught the flicker of burden in the old man’s face.

  “Yes. Truly we are graced by his presence. Mm!” He smiled wryly. “As you observed, his equipage is, shall we say, slightly more elaborate than your own.”

  Dismas returned a knowing chuckle.

  “A pilgrim is a pilgrim. We are all the same, before God. Well, more or less.”

  “I insist that you accompany me to the castle. My master will have my head if I return with empty hands. And I am fond of my head. Mm!”

  Dismas turned to Dürer.

  “My lord? What say you to this most gracious invitation?”

  Dürer, ashen-faced, drew himself up straight.

  “Well . . . don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “Ah,” Rostang exclaimed, “forgive me, my lord. In the excitement, I have forgotten my manners.”

  He knelt before Dürer and extended his hand in formal obeisance. Yes, Dismas thought. He wants to see the ring.

  Dürer extended his hand, and sure enough, Dismas saw the old man examine Lothar’s signet ring, to see if it matched the wax seal of the griffin and sword on the letter.

  Dismas asked, “Should we accompany you?”

  “Yes, yes. But for the audience with his grace, it will be only your master and yourself. The rest of you we shall endeavor to make comfortable with the other servants. We have had to put up tents in the courtyard. It resembles a bazaar. Mm! We burst at the seams! But always it is thus when his highness exposes the Holy Shroud.”

  “I marvel that you are able to cope,” Dismas said sympathetically.

  Rostang and Dismas walked ahead, enabling them to converse chamberlain to chamberlain.

  “May I ask how it goes with your master’s godfather, His Imperial Highness? Mm!” Rostang said.

  Dismas had dictated the letter which Dürer wrote out in his own hand:

  My beloved godfather, formerly King of Spain and now by the grace of God, soon to be Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, commands me to extend his most Christian and fraternal love.

  If you’re going to drop a name, Dismas thought, drop it good and hard.

  “He is excellent well,” Dismas replied, “considering the immense burdens that now rest upon his great shoulders.”

  Aware that courtiers enjoy nothing more than a bit of gossip, Dismas added, “I regret to tell you—between ourselves—that he is sorely beset by the gout. What a time for such an affliction to present itself.”

  “I grieve to hear it,” Rostang said, shaking his head. “Mm!”

  “His physicians—and our own Sister Hildegard—are of the opinion that it has resulted from his lifetime habit of eating only red meat. My master has scolded him—lovingly—about this. He tells him, ‘Godfather, you must eat vegetables!’ How gratifying, the intimacy between them. They are like . . . brothers.”

  It took only ten minutes to arrive at the entrance to the castle. They proceeded through the gate and up a steep cobbled ramp that brought them into the Court of Honor. As Rostang had said, it was so crowded with tents as to resemble a busy market.

  On their right, they saw the Gothic-style Holy Chapel built by Duke Charles’s ancestor Amadeus VIII. Since 1502, this had been the repository of the Holy Shroud. Dismas and the others genuflected and made the sign of the cross.

  Rostang observed, “It was your master’s godfather’s predecessor, the Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund, who a century ago elevated my master’s ancestor Amadeus to the title of Duke of Savoy. Mm! For this reason—and many others—the dukes of Savoy have always held the Holy Roman emperors in the greatest esteem and affection.”

  Dismas put his hand over his heart to show how touching was this sentiment.

  They were swarmed by household attendants. Rostang instructed them to find a tent in which to install their new guests in comfort. This done, he bid Count Lothar and chamberlain Rufus to follow him up the steps into the royal apartments, across the courtyard from the Holy Chapel.

  30

  Charles the Good

  Dismas paused at the threshold of the royal audience chamber as two footmen prepared to open the doors. He said pointedly to Dürer, “Your sword, my lord?”

  Dürer stared, uncomprehendingly. Then said: “Ah. Yes. The sword.”

  They had rehearsed this, but in his nervousness, Dürer had forgotten that one does not enter armed into royal presence, even if one is also of the noblesse.

  Dismas took the sword and presented it ceremoniously to Rostang, who handed it off to one of his men. This protocol would afford Rostang a second opportunity to confirm Lothar’s identity, upon seeing the inscription on the blade from the King of Spain to his godson.

  The great doors opened.

  They followed Rostang into the chamber. Dismas reminded himself not to reveal by slip of tongue that he was a Swiss. Before declaring itself forever after neutral, the Confederation had invaded the Duchy of Savoy, on multiple occasions.

  The room was crowded, but rather than browse, Dismas and Dürer kept their eyes fixed straight ahead, on the figure of the Duke of Savoy.

  Duke Charles rose from his throne, opened his arms wide, and, forsaking all formality, descended the steps to greet his visitor. His smile was radiant, as if he had been long anticipating this joyous moment.

  He was a pleasant-looking fellow: midthirties, large-boned, soft-faced. His most prominent feature was his beaky nose. Did everyone in Chambéry have one? Dismas wondered.

  Charles was modestly dressed for a duke, neither extravagantly bejeweled nor upholstered in great quantities of brocade. He wore his hair in neat bangs, giving him a slightly feminine aspect. His eyes were brown and languid. This unprepossessing appearance was, Dismas thought, apposite in one who had grown to maturity with no expectation whatsoever of becoming ruler. By happenstance, both Charles and his father—Philip “the Landless”—acceded to the throne by dint o
f accident; what’s more, legitimately, absent foul play. Very rare.

  “My lord Lothar!” Duke Charles fairly bellowed, clasping the petrified Dürer to the ducal bosom.

  Dismas held his breath and prayed that Dürer would not faint or wet himself. His prayers were answered. Count Lothar neatly bowed and in a steady voice rejoined, “Most Illustrious Grace.”

  They’d debated whether Dürer should greet him as “Cousin,” but decided this might be presumptuous, given the disproportion in rank between duke and count.

  “We are overwhelmed with joy at your presence,” Duke Charles said. “But why did you not send word? We would have prepared the fatted calf!”

  Pleasantries proceeded apace. Dürer warmed to his imposture, as Dismas had expected he would, given his inherently imperious temperament.

  The Duke turned to his right and said, “Your grace, allow me to present my most welcome guest, Lothar Count Schramberg.”

  Dismas and Dürer had been so focused on Charles they only now saw that their audience was doubly ducal.

  Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, ruler of Florence, lay on his side on a gilded divan, propped up on pillows and elbow like a Roman emperor conducting his levee.

  “Ecco,” Dürer said, and performed an elaborate curtsy, arms extended forward, palms up. “Serenissmo e maestoso duca.”

  Dismas had never heard Dürer’s Italian. It sounded quite good.

  The Duke of Urbino gave a slight nod, either out of proportionate courtesy of duke to count, or because of his debility. The poor man did not look well. A fresh application of greasepaint had been made to his face; it was no longer caked. Dismas noted again that the duke’s right hand was pressed tightly to his chest.

  Duke Charles now turned to another personage, this one resplendent in the scarlet finery of his office, including ferraiolo, the cape worn over the princely shoulders. Scarlet, the color of blood, signified the wearer’s readiness to die for the faith.

  “Eminence, may I present . . .”

  Luigi, Cardinal d’Aragona, was a Neapolitan grandee who in his youth had married the granddaughter of Pope Innocent VIII. Upon her death, he renounced his marquisate and entered into holy orders, at which career he had prospered, displaying a talent for administration and diplomacy. He was an intimate of the King of France.

  Dismas had spent time at court, but this was heady stuff. He craved a fortifying drink. For his part, Dürer appeared quite at home.

  The Cardinal of Aragon took in Count Lothar’s plain white garment and nodded approvingly.

  “You are on pilgrimage? King François—his grace the Duke of Urbino and myself were only just now speaking of him—also made pilgrimage to Chambéry some years ago, to give thanks for victory in a great battle. On foot, all the way from Lyon.”

  The Cardinal appeared to be waiting for Count Lothar to vouchsafe his own reason for trudging hundreds of miles here from Schramberg—wherever that was—dressed in a dirty white rag. A somewhat awkward question to be asked in public, in front of two dukes, no less. The Cardinal was in effect inquiring what dreadful sin had brought Lothar here in atonement.

  But Dürer deftly seized the opportunity.

  “I am giving thanks for my godfather’s accession to the Holy Roman throne.” He added with a hint of aloofness, “And what brings your eminence to Chambéry?”

  “The Holy Shroud, of course. And, it goes without saying, the superb hospitality of his grace the Duke.”

  Charles smiled demurely at the compliment.

  Aragon continued: “In addition to its charms, Chambéry is conveniently situated. His grace Lorenzo is himself on his way from Urbino to Paris, for the baptism of the dauphin. Myself, I progress back to Rome. From Paris.”

  Dürer plucked a cup of wine from a tray held by a footman. Dismas was about to reach for one himself until he remembered his place.

  “Paris. Ah, Paris,” Dürer said with an air of mild ennui. “And how was Paris?”

  “Magnificent, as always.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Dürer said languidly. “On my own last visit, I found it . . . how to say it with delicacy? . . . filthy. One admires the French for their ability to coexist on such easy terms with vermin.”

  Aragon stared.

  Dürer went on: “One hardly dares step foot out of bed in the morning, for fear of stepping on a rat.” He gave an epicene shudder of revulsion. “Everywhere, rats. One I saw chasing a dog. And let me tell you—the dog was terrified. But then, it was a terrier.”

  The Duke of Urbino laughed, which made him cough. Dismas glanced furtively at Duke Charles, who was trying not to laugh.

  The Cardinal of Aragon said stiffly, “I take it, then, you were not a guest at palace.”

  “Heavens, no!” Dürer replied. “I’ve learned, quand à Paris, to make my own arrangements. Fontainebleau I find drafty. On my last visit, I spent the entire time calling for more wood for my fire. Came away with a brutal catarrh. But I grant your eminence there are at least fewer rats at palace.” He turned to Duke Charles and smiled. “Of one variety, that is.”

  The Duke of Urbino was now convulsing, making unpleasant pulmonic sounds. His retinue fluttered about him like swallows.

  The Cardinal of Aragon excused himself. He glided, tight-lipped, from the chamber, ferraiolo trailing across the parquet, scurried after by monsignors.

  Duke Charles’s cheeks were dimpled from imploded mirth. His eyes were bright and twinkly. He said in a lowered voice with an air of delighted mischief, “I’ll be sure to seat you and his eminence next to each other at the banquet tonight.”

  He waved over Rostang and instructed him to find rooms for Count Lothar. They huddled, murmuring. Dismas cocked an ear. Rostang was telling the Duke that there simply were no rooms. The Duke expressed horror. Rostang replied that much as he shared his master’s horror—mm!—that the problem was nonetheless insurmountable. Urbino and Aragon’s multitudinous equipages had filled every bed in the royal apartments, every nook and cranny.

  Still the Duke remonstrated with his chamberlain. Rostang dug in his heels and said that if his grace insisted, then he would make room, but it would require an eviction. And his grace knew very well who must be evicted. Charles sighed airily as only nobles can and said, “Very well.”

  Presently Duke Charles turned to his guest Count Lothar and with pains explained the situation. It was intolerable. However, if his lordship Count Lothar would consent, a well-appointed apartment would be made available for him and his retinue. The apartment was, alas, not within the castle grounds proper, but it was close by, indeed, directly across from the Holy Chapel, opposite the wall on which the Shroud would be displayed.

  Dismas thought, Well.

  The Duke went on: From the apartment window, Lothar would have a splendid view. Was this acceptable? Count Lothar would of course be included in all the ceremonies and proceedings, starting with tonight’s banquet.

  Count Lothar replied that he was overwhelmed by such magnanimity. He accepted gratefully and humbly. His godfather would hear of this generosity, sure.

  Dürer now turned to Dismas and with hauteur as flawless as his spoken Italian instructed him to accompany the chamberlain Rostang to see to the arrangements.

  Dismas bowed and left him to his new friends.

  Rostang kept up a show of cordiality, but Dismas saw that his shoulders were a bit slumped, indicating that he did not relish his present duty.

  “These apartments,” Dismas probed, “I gather they are occupied?”

  “Alas, yes. Mm!” replied Rostang.

  “Awkward.”

  “Mm! Most awkward.”

  “Might I ask whose apartments are they?”

  “Quimper. Archdeacon of the Holy Chapel.”

  Dismas thought, Hell. So they were about to be the cause of the Shroud’s guardian being thrown out of his own home. What goodwill that would engender.

  “My master would be appalled to think he was inconveniencing an archdeacon,” Dismas
said with mock horror. “Have no further care, Master Rostang. We are well content to remain in the gardens.”

  Rostang looked at Dismas curiously.

  “Why should you care about inconveniencing an archdeacon? Mm!” Rostang shrugged. “He’s only a servant, like us. It’s not the first time he’s been rousted from his rooms to accommodate dignitaries.”

  “Perhaps I care because I am a servant.”

  “Mm! How long have you been in service, Master Rufus?”

  “Well, not so long.”

  Rostang made another of his little high-pitched grunts. “Mm! It shows. Don’t waste your pity on Quimper. These things happen. It’s in the nature of things to happen. It’s what things do.”

  “You’re a philosopher, Master Rostang.”

  “I assure you, you will find me the most practical of men. Mm! I serve Charles the Good. Which means—as you shall shortly see—that on occasions I must be Rostang the Shit.”

  “That is philosophical.”

  “Does Heraclitus not teach us that the rule of the universe is flux? Embrace the flux, I say. Lest it embrace us. Well, here we are. Let us put on our aggrieved faces. Mm!”

  31

  Three Kings

  Dürer threw open the shuttered windows of their new quarters. The lads and Sister Hildegard were exploring the various rooms, still warm from occupancy by Archdeacon Quimper and his household servants, all of whom seemed to consist of handsome and girlish young men.

  “Yes, this will do,” Dürer said.

  The apartment was on the third floor, looking directly out at the castle wall where the Shroud would be displayed. Almost close enough to touch. Was God smiling on their enterprise? Dismas wondered why God would.

  He said to Dürer, “Archdeacon Quimper was thrilled to be evicted. When you see him, better give him your best curtsy, like you did Urbino.”

  “It wasn’t my idea to have the archdeacon evicted,” Dürer sniffed. “As for my curtsy to the Italian, I only did it to avoid having to kiss his pustulating ring hand.” He shuddered. “Uhh!”

  “You made a good impression. But now we’ve made an enemy, who happens to be the Shroud’s guardian.”