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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I am deliberating about speaking to an advocate to limit the damage that the Landsmacht can do to me. It is unfortunate that I do not yet have funds enough to pay for the services I would need, and that has made me loath to mention this to you, but that the sooner I may be honestly employed, the sooner you will not have to burden yourself with my cares; if you could add five ducats to retain an advocate, then I know you will be rewarded later for your generosity.

  I realize, my dear sister, that this is a burden on you, and one you may not be able to accept, given your circumstances. Let me impose upon you, then, to the extent that upon your recommendation, your patron, the Grav, might see his way to considering publishing my work, The Promise of the New World, Its Peoples and Resources. I realize my work is based upon reports, not first-hand knowledge, but it is as thorough a compendium as your publisher is likely to find anywhere, and more varied, in that I have spoken to soldiers and sailors as well as captains and priests. I have even interviewed a Spaniard but lately returned from Peru, who claims to have seen the apparent King of the natives, a man who was besting his brother in war, the Royal Priest At-U-Alpa. His story was most compelling, but it may not have been true. Still, I intend to include it in my work, so that all will know what is being said of the people of that distant, mountainous land. It seems to me that in years to come, knowledge of the New World could prove useful to scholars and travelers alike.

  For myself, I would like to be able to teach here in Heidelberg, not only because of the superiority of the university, but because I am certain my studies may prove useful to many of the scholars working here. If not in this place, I will have to consider more distant institutions, such as Fiorenze and Oxford, as the current turmoil around me has made seeking a chair nearer to Amsterdam a potentially dangerous move. There may be other applications for my skills: much of my work could be of the practical kind, such as assisting in translations and in securing and cataloguing new information as it arrives here. I am predicating my assumption on the hope that I will be vindicated of all wrong-thinking, and my reputation made uncontroversial. If that cannot be accomplished, and I am forced to leave Heidelberg, then I would like to establish myself at some fine school, one with opportunities for me as well as good standing in the world of learning to build upon.

  But one thing at a time: first I must emerge from the cloud of contestation that the Landsmacht has set upon me, or all else may be lost. Once that is done, I will be delighted to pursue my academic goals with full rigor and determination. With your help, I know I will emerge from this present embarrassment with my standing improved, at which time I will be able to do as a brother should, and provide you some portion of the support you have accorded me.

  Extend my good wishes to our aunt, and continue to keep yourself as carefully as you have done until now. I pray for you, dear Erneste, and hope that we will meet again in this world as well as the one to come.

  Your most affectionate brother,

  Onfroi van Amsteljaxter

  By my own hand at Heidelberg, on the 2ndday of May, 1531

  7

  Eleazaro Justo San Martin y Sobrano stood in the middle of the printing room of Eclipse Press, his arms folded, his sword swinging at his side. His doublet was of black suede piped in gold, his hose were mid-thigh length, of studded, stiffened black-painted linen, his leggings were gunmetal-gray, his shoes were black and buckled in gold. “You claim that you have not broken the law, Señor?”

  Saint-Germain achieved a partial smile, addressing him in Castillian Spanish. “I am properly addressed as Grav, Capitan, and I am certain I have not broken the law; not any law in Amsterdam, in any case, which, I recall, you do not control.” He, too, was in black, but his clothing—today in the Venezian style to emphasize his foreignness—gave an impression of elegance instead of threat. Rather than his silver-linked collar with its pendant eclipse in silver and black sapphire, he had fixed a single, square ruby at the base of his soft Italian ruff; the left hand was gloved, the right bore only his signet ring on his Mercury finger.

  “Not specifically, no, but we do control Antwerp, where you have another press, and that one has suspended publication while their works—your works, Grav—are investigated, and your men questioned about your practices,” said Capitan Sobrano. He nodded toward the window and the east-southeast, in the general direction of Antwerp. The high window was open to let in the timid warmth of the day, and to provide a fair quantity of limpid northern light; the tools and equipment were all clean and in order and the stacks of paper near the press were so luminous they seemed to glow from within.

  “Yes; so I was informed by private courier yesterday morning. And to think the Antwerp press has only just released The Life of Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony; the first copies went on sale six days ago. Come now: the Church could hardly object to the life of a man who so admirably upheld his faith, since his namesake is about to rule there.” Saint-Germain inclined his head slightly, as if to respect the late ruler. “Frederick the Wise deserved his cognomen.”

  “He also supported Luther and other Protestants,” the Spanish officer observed. “If you intend to promulgate tolerance for heresy it is hardly surprising that you have no one—”

  “I have no such intention, although I do admire Frederick’s permissiveness, for he would have had war with his own subjects had he been more strict, a prudential stance Charles’ brother would do well to emulate,” Saint-Germain said, glancing around his printing room and turning his palms up to show he had nothing to do or say about the lack of industry there.

  “Better for his soul had he stamped out the heresy before it took root. As it is, his people may be lost to the Protestants.” The Capitan’s pointed beard angled outward to emphasize his intention.

  “I fear most of your censure stems from a misunderstanding of Eclipse Press,” said Saint-Germain, doing his best not to stray into matters of dogma. “If my printers and binders were here, they could confirm the plans I have for the future; they certainly know which books we are preparing for sale, and which are planned to be prepared during the next year—assuming we can find sufficient paper for our needs. The warehouse that burned last week had just received eleven bales of paper—but I suppose you know that?”

  “A great misfortune,” said the Capitan, gloating.

  Saint-Germain let this pass. “You may take my future plans from what I have done in the past: if you would look about you, you would see that I have no titles more outrageous than a collection of variations on folk tales, which is planned for this spring, and which contains nothing more offensive than the stories peasants tell. After that, I am considering a book of maps of the Papal States and the Two Sicilies.” He did not add that he had drafted the maps himself.

  “Yes,” said Capitan Sobrano with a faint, unpleasant laugh. “If they were here.”

  “This amuses you?” Saint-Germain’s self-composure concealed his alarm.

  “It must, for, as you say, it bears so directly on your plans.” He actually laughed aloud. He walked down the length of the printing room, touching the press as he passed. “You see, on the authority of the Emperor and the Pope, your men have been detained: pressmen, binders, typesetters, compositors, leather-workers, embossers, goldsmiths and gilders, the lot of them. For the sake of public security, they will be subjected to examination, and if we are satisfied that they have not contributed to civil unrest or to religious error, they will be released.”

  Saint-Germain kept his temper in check, knowing this man wanted to goad him into ill-considered remarks. “I am surprised that you were allowed to do so.”

  “Why should that be? The Church is strong here, and there are so many Protestants that they are at one anothers’ throats: Calvin’s adherents, disciples of Luther, Anabaptists, and even a few followers of Hutter—all of them competing to corrupt the most souls. God and the Pope must be rejoicing to see such folly, for surely these heresies will end through mutual antagonism. Our garrison is here i
n support of the Church, sparing the city’s officials the need to endorse what we do.” He stopped next to the bindery tables and picked up an awl. “There are some ignorant men who might mistake this for a weapon.”

  “They would have to be very ignorant indeed,” said Saint-Germain, able to remain affable in spite of his increasing dismay.

  “A man like you has the wherewithal not to have to remain here. Your printers and binders and the rest will probably be released, but who knows what accusations they may lay at your door, Senor Grav, in exchange for their liberty and the liberty of their families? There is always work for an honest tradesman, but the activities you have undertaken may cast doubts upon them, and they will not want that, for themselves, their families, their Guilds, and their city.” He set the awl down again, not bothering to align it with the other tools. “If you close this business and leave, no smirch would stick to your character, for, as you say, the Crown has compromised authority here.”

  “Except such flight would sting me mercilessly—worse than anything you might persuade the courts to do to me. I would deplore my lack of integrity, and that would cause me great anguish, so I fear I must remain here until I am satisfied none of my workers will face punishment on my account,” said Saint-Germain. “Your warning is much appreciated, as is your intent, but I fear I must remain, to see that no injustice is visited upon those who work for me; I have no wish for anyone to suffer on my account.” He indicated the door that led out into the small shop at the front of the printing room. “I thank you for your concern, Capitan. I will take all you say into consideration, and I will be at pains to see that those in my employ are afforded the full protection of the law.”

  This had not been the Capitan’s purpose at all, but he did his best to reclaim what he could of his offensive. “You might want to tend to your own situation first: these men may not be worthy of your support.”

  “I will not know until I support them, will I.” Saint-Germain began to draw on his fine Italian glove, the black leather supple and glossy. “You have acted on your purpose, and I have listened to what you wished to tell me. Unless you have something more to say, our business is concluded. Now all that remains is for each of us to proceed as we think best.” He held the door for the Capitan—an almost unheard-of courtesy—adding, “I will send a note to your superiors, commending you for coming to me.”

  Capitan Sobrano glowered. “There is no need for you to do that, Senor Grav.”

  “That, I believe, is for me to decide,” said Saint-Germain, making a gesture to indicate the cramped shelves of the shop. “While you’re here, if you wish to make an inventory of what I offer for sale, I will be willing to wait while you do; if you would prefer to attend to this another time, you must pardon me, but I had best be about the task of finding other printers and binders. I have a schedule to maintain.” He had gone to the front door to close the shutters on the front windows.

  “You may find that a more difficult task than it was before, given the state of publishing in Amsterdam, and the desires of Emperor Charles and the Church. As to the inventory, I will attend to that later; one of the clerks will come to inspect your shelves; I haven’t the time for such tasks,” said Capitan Sobrano, his gaze flicking contemptuously about the room; Saint-Germain realized that the Capitan was very nearly illiterate for he made no attempt to read any of the titles in front of him, not even the two in Spanish.

  “Then I will detain you no longer,” said Saint-Germain, opening the door to the street.

  The Capitan stepped onto the narrow street fronting the canal. “You have given me much to think about.”

  “As you have given me,” said Saint-Germain, fixing the lock on the door-latch before turning away from the Spaniard and striding along in order to conceal the vertigo the nearness of the canal caused him, and the general disorientation he suffered surrounded by so much running water. He was aware that the Capitan was watching him, looking for any weakness he might report; this was more than Saint-Germain was willing to concede, and so he kept on steadily, taking advantage of the first corner to go left, down the alley along the flank of the new little church dedicated to the Holy Trinity. Once certain that the Capitan was not behind him, he slowed down to a strolling pace and began to review the short discussion in his thoughts; why had the Capitan visited him, beyond the desire to gloat? Why had his workmen been detained, and what help could he provide them without increasing their danger? Who had reported his press to the Church, or had the Church been watching him as a matter of course, as it had many others? So preoccupied was he that he nearly walked into a tall, portly man in a stained and patched leather doublet and Italian-style hose. “Pardon,” he said in Dutch, and then in French. He could not make out the man’s features, which were partially obscured by the wide brim of his leathern hat and the general disorder of his hair.

  The big man seemed nonplussed. “E niente,” he said—it’s nothing—in a Venezian accent, backing up as if to get away from him.

  Saint-Germain was startled to hear that tongue spoken in this place, and began to apologize for not using his language. “I have offended you; I ask your pardon for it. I should have noticed your shoes—only Veneziani wear such shoes, or has that—”

  “The Grav is mistaken,” the man muttered brusquely in dreadful Flemish.

  “Let me assure you that I meant no insult,” Saint-Germain persisted, wondering suddenly how this stranger knew his rank and now determined to learn more. “I’ll stand you a drink for—”

  But the man faded back into the shadows of the alley, slipping away in a silence that was unnerving in such a large fellow.

  Saint-Germain watched him go, his night-seeing eyes less hampered by the darkness than most living men’s; he saw the big man enter the church by the narrow door usually reserved for clergy. “Strange,” he whispered in his native language. Little as he wanted to admit it, he was as much disquieted by the discovery of this Veneziano as he was by the threats of Capitan Sobrano. He resumed his walk homeward, arriving there five minutes later, feeling slightly queasy from crossing three bridges on his way. Ordinarily he would have taken a slightly longer route that would have spared him one of the bridges, but today speed seemed more essential than comfort.

  He entered the house using his key without bothering to raise the knocker. Stepping into the vestibule and then into the long corridor, he found his steward, Bogardt van Leun, bringing a tray with fresh hand-rolls, butter, and a large cup of ale to the front parlor. “Van Leun,” said Saint-Germain, startled to see his steward on this errand.

  “Grav,” said van Leun, almost equally startled. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t hear you knock.”

  “Because there was no knock to hear. I used my key,” said Saint-Germain, then indicated the tray van Leun was carrying. “I gather from this bounty that there is company?”

  “Yes; an advocate has called. He says that you have retained his services,” said van Leun.

  “Rudolph Eschen,” said Saint-Germain. “I had not expected to see him so soon.”

  “So he told me,” said van Leun. “Your man Ruthger instructed me to admit him and get him some refreshment, and then he left to go to your—”

  “To Eclipse Press,” Saint-Germain finished for him.

  “I should have thought you would have encountered him on your way,” said van Leun.

  “I came by different streets than I usually do,” said Saint-Germain, nodding to the parlor door that was slightly ajar. “Let us not keep Advocate Eschen waiting.”

  “As you say, Grav,” van Leun responded, using his elbow to open the door. “Grav Saint-Germain,” he announced as he stepped through the door.

  Rudolph Eschen was an imposing man: tall, broad-shouldered, crag-faced, with keen, clever eyes the color of Chinese turquoise. He was well-dressed in somber dark-brown; the broad collar of his chamarre was of marten-fur, but lacked any fripperies of fashion that would detract from his dignity. At thirty-seven, he was at the height of
his powers, and he knew it. Rising to his feet, he offered Saint-Germain the suggestion of a bow. “Grav. I am relieved to see you.”

  “If you mean that some of my employees have been detained by Church officials, I share your relief.” He gestured to his steward to put down the tray, then said, “Thank you, van Leun.”

  Van Leun obeyed the implicit dismissal, and withdrew from the parlor.

  “Please.” Saint-Germain indicated the tray. “I am not presently hungry.”

  “Very kind of you,” said Eschen, sitting once again on the straight-backed settee. “I heard about the detention not an hour ago, and as soon as I was at liberty, I came here, to offer my services.” His eyes crinkled. “I have accepted your payment, so it is fitting that you avail yourself of my talents.”

  “Very true,” said Saint-Germain. “I am worried for the safety of those in my employ—all of them, not just those working at the press, for it seems to me that everyone is at risk, no matter how exemplary their lives. I know how these inquiries tend to spread, and how insinuation transforms into known fact as the questioning continues to expand.”

  “I have already filed a petition on behalf of your workers that they not be turned over to the Secular Arm without a hearing,” said Eschen. “It is just a beginning, but it puts the Church authorities on notice that they must do their work in public view, which is to our advantage.”

  “Providential,” Saint-Germain approved with an ironic twist to his lips. “I thank you for your efforts.”

  Eschen did not quite laugh, but there was a trace of amusement in his hewn visage that indicated he appreciated Saint-Germain’s wit. “No court in Amsterdam will approve of handing anyone over to the Church for torture. Not even the Catholics would want such a thing to happen, certainly not here, in public view. There’s too much unrest in the city as it is; if there is any incident, no matter now minor, that touches off the people, there will be riots and worse.”