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

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Stands to reason the Protestants are behind us; Venezia is a Catholic republic,” Oralle declared.

  “Jews and Eastern Rite Christians are allowed to worship in Venezia without risk, so the Veneziani can make the most of their trading with the men from the east,” said delle Fonde, a note of disapproval in his voice. “There is even a chapel for the Ottoman merchants to worship their Allah, on the Giudecca. I have seen its tower.”

  “The Minor Consiglio has familiars to keep watch on those places,” said Oralle, dismissing the matter. “Those who go to those places are known.”

  “There are spies all over,” Mercer observed. “Even in the confessional.”

  “Have a care what you say in Confession, then,” said delle Fonde.

  “Or buy an indulgence and avoid Confession entirely,” said Yeoville with a merry, cynical laugh. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’d never tell a priest half of what I’ve done. If I must have an indulgence to expiate my sins, then so be it.”

  Belfountain shook his head. “It’s more than indulgences that Protestants object to—Yeoville is right: priests are known to gossip, and many honest sinners are compromised because of it. That’s what many Protestant Christians believe.”

  “Others have before them, and paid for their faith in blood,” said delle Fonde, his expression hard.

  “Are Protestant Christians any more virtuous?” Oralle directed this to Mercer. “Or do they only think they are?”

  “The Church is saying that because of the Protestants, devils will be released upon the world, deceiving men,” said Mercer. “Without the Church to guide men, all will go astray into the hands of Satan.”

  “There are peculiar doings in the world, no doubt,” Yeoville said as if glad of such a development.

  “It is a dangerous time,” said Mercer.

  “All the more work for us,” said Belfountain. “So long as our faith is the faith of the man who pays us.”

  “We can be sure of steady work, putting the fear of God into anyone who won’t pay us,” said delle Fonde with bitter bravado.

  “You mean sack a town for the Glory of God?” Mercer asked. “Why not?”

  “What would God achieve for a sacking?” Delle Fonde spoke so softly that almost no one heard him.

  “Which God?” Oralle guffawed and clapped his hands.

  “Any God, so long as we can keep the spoils,” said Mercer.

  “And are paid in advance,” said Belfountain.

  “I wonder what would happen if Calvin and Luther were locked in a cell together?” Yeoville asked suddenly, and answered his own question. “I think they would tear one another to pieces.”

  “In the name of a just and merciful God,” said Mercer, shaking his head. All but delle Fonde chuckled as Mercer intended they should, but because of delle Fonde’s silence the chuckles faded quickly.

  “All right, man: what is it?” Belfountain asked.

  “I … I’d rather not—” delle Fonde said apologetically. “It is nothing that should concern you.”

  “Now that we are in Venezian territory?” ventured Oralle. “Is it the Catholic Church that keeps you silent? Or are you defending Protestants by saying nothing of what you know?”

  Delle Fonde became more reticent still. “That isn’t the issue.”

  “Oho,” said Mercer, smiling again, but without a trace of goodfellowship. “What is the matter, Giulio? Is there something you’re hiding from us—your comrades-in-arms?”

  “Secrets are worse than ferrets,” said Yeoville, quoting the old Italian-Swiss proverb in order to goad delle Fonde into revealing more.

  “Leave him alone,” said Belfountain. “It has nothing to do with us. Every one of you has secrets, as is your right: no man in my Company has to tell more of his past than he wishes, and that goes for all of you. You may keep the faith you have or have none, as it pleases you. But see you do not fight about what you do not know about one another.”

  “Yes. We may not know but we can guess, and our guesses are probably worse than the truth, but if he wants to risk that …” said Oralle, and suddenly yawned. “If only we had a little wine left.”

  “Or some beer,” said Mercer. “A jug of it apiece.”

  “Wine is better in this part of the world,” Oralle said, hoping for a sharp reaction.

  “Tomorrow you may swill until you cannot stand upright,” said Belfountain. “Tonight we have no wine left.”

  “A pity,” said Oralle.

  These complaints diverted the others from questioning delle Fonde, the men carping to one another that they longed for wine or beer, anything to relieve their thirst, and that it was unfair that they had nothing to drink.

  “There is a stream not very far away,” Ruggier pointed out.

  “There is,” said Belfountain. “But its waters are not wholesome. Those who drink from it often suffer from the bloody flux.”

  “Ah,” said di Santo-Germano as he came into the glow of the firelight from where his few cases and chests had been piled and covered for the night; his black clothing made his appearance unnerving for the Company, and two of the men crossed themselves. “So that’s the problem: a good thing to know. Bloody flux is to be avoided.” At another time he would have offered these men a tincture to rid the water of its contamination, but he had not brought any of that preparation with him on this hurried journey. “Then best not to drink of the stream—the animals should be kept from it, as well. I will find a spring for them while you sleep, so they will be able to slake their thirst in the morning.”

  “Wine and beer are safe, and they warm the heart,” said delle Fonde, a forlorn note in his statement. “Do you not agree, Conte?”

  Di Santo-Germano looked over at delle Fonde, a bit startled by the question. “If the choice is wine, beer, or unwholesome water, then wine and beer are preferable, at least for men. Not all creatures are as susceptible to the flux as humans are.” It was a safe enough answer, and it allowed the men to debate which was better—wine or beer; no conclusion was reached, but none was expected, and it ended shortly before the rabbits were ready to eat; the men took out their knives in preparation for their meal. Excusing himself, di Santo-Germano walked away from the campfire toward the remuda to groom the horses, as he had done every evening they had camped on the road.

  “An odd one, the Conte,” said Mercer. Since they had crossed the borders of the Venezian Empire, the men of the escort had taken to using di Santo-Germano instead of Saint-Germain, and Conte instead of Grav, and they had stopped calling his manservant Ruthger and now referred to him as Ruggier. “I don’t think I’ve seen him touch wine or beer. Or water, for that matter.” He glanced in Ruggier’s direction, clearly seeking a comment.

  “My master dines and drinks in private. It is the custom of those of his blood.” Ruggier nodded toward the pot of cheese-and-bread. “That will burn if you hold it too close to the fire.”

  Delle Fonde drew his pot back from the flames, and looked about sheepishly. “I ask your pardon, comrades,” he said pointedly to the hungry men sitting around the campfire while he stirred the pot more energetically.

  Mercer pointed to Ruggier. “I have also noticed that you eat in private—each of you; alone.”

  “It is a habit I have picked up from my master over my years of service, for he often travels—as exiles must—and it is easier to live by his habits than to constantly learn new ones; in many places, we have had to stay apart from others, as custom requires, so it is not unreasonable for me to dine alone,” said Ruggier calmly but not quite truthfully; he knew that his diet of raw meat would seem repellant to these men. “I have provided fowl and game for us to eat, and you know I always take my share.”

  “From that, we must suppose that your master hunts only for himself as well as dines alone. And he, like most men of high station, does not share.” Yeoville made this a challenge, lifting his chin and raising his voice.

  Ruggier remained unflustered. “You would be corr
ect.” There was a brief, awkward silence among those gathered around the campfire; it ended as delle Fonde took one of the spits and began to cut portions of rabbit for the men, who seized their shares in their hands and knives, and began eagerly to eat. Ruggier got to his feet, saying as he did, “May you make a fine meal. I will be on guard from midnight until dawn?”

  “You will,” said Belfountain. “Yeoville will be with you.”

  “Very good; at midnight, then, and on until dawn,” Ruggier said with a half-nod in Yeoville’s direction, adding, “I am going to assist my master with grooming the horses.”

  “Of course you are,” said Belfountain, his attention fixed on the second spit that Oralle was removing from its place over the flames; the meat sizzled where the flames had blackened it, and the small thyme leaves fell off like little cinders. “Tell him that we will be under way at first light.”

  “Gladly,” said Ruggier, and continued on toward the remuda line, where he found di Santo-Germano brushing the mouse-colored gelding he had been riding earlier.

  “Belfountain’s blood-bay has a bad bruise on the offside forepastern,” said di Santo-Germano as Ruggier came up to him; he spoke in the language of Persia. “It probably happened when we were coming down from that defile, through the brush. I’m surprised he is not lame.”

  “Belfountain will want to find a remount tomorrow, then,” said Ruggier in the same tongue.

  “I’ll treat the bruise tonight; that should help,” said di Santo-Germano. He finished brushing the gelding’s coat and set his brush aside in favor of a long-toothed comb for the mane and tail. “Those men—they’re noticing too much about us, are they not.”

  “They are, and they’re beginning to ask questions,” said Ruggier. “I think they will be pleased to see the last of you, and of me.”

  The sound of laughter drifted to them from the bright ring of the campfire.

  “Small wonder,” said di Santo-Germano; he busied himself easing a burr out of the horse’s mane. “Last night, while I feigned sleeping, I kept breathing so that the guard would not become aware that I do not have to breathe but to speak. I should do the same tonight—as should you.”

  “I know,” said Ruggier. “I think Yeoville is determined to find something amiss with us.”

  “That’s the last fig!” Oralle bellowed, and was answered with a scuffle.

  “Yes; I think so as well. It is his nature to be suspicious, and the rest follow his example. That is why I have confined my feeding to game, and only game, on this journey; I cannot risk discovery, particularly from men such as these, who are touchy of their honor.” Di Santo-Germano worked the comb steadily as he went on. “Tonight I will stand the early watch with Belfountain and—it will be delle Fonde, I suppose.”

  “It is his turn,” said Ruggier. “I will have Yeoville with me on duty.”

  Di Santo-Germano moved to the rear of the horse and took the tail in his hands to begin combing. “I am inclined to keep this gelding. He’s steady-tempered and he has more stamina than the others in this remuda.”

  Ruggier’s long experience with di Santo-Germano allowed him to recognize that his master was bringing himself to a point indirectly, so he waited patiently, saying, “I am sure that will be possible.”

  Combing carefully, di Santo-Germano sighed. “How well you understand me, old friend.” He finished his task and set the comb aside with the brush. “I have been expecting something of this sort. These men have traveled too closely with us for them not to have noticed that we are something more than merely foreigners, and that is troubling to me.”

  “Because of all we have encountered of late,” Ruggier said.

  “Yes, that and the hard lessons learned over the centuries. Little as the Catholics may like Protestants of any sort, and all manner of Protestants dislike Catholics with a poisonous intensity, all of them would turn their fear and fury upon such a creature as I am, or you are, and justify their actions in the name of both religions. As much as the rival Christians despise one another, they loathe anyone deemed unnatural far more.” He stared off into the night, seeing farther than the starry darkness. “At least they will move on tomorrow, after we reach Mestre.”

  “They may speculate—” Ruggier began.

  “So they may, and they are welcome to do so, once they are out of the Venezian Empire; to whom can they confide their misgivings but one another, and how can that endanger you or me?” said di Santo-Germano. “It would probably be best if I help them to have good reason to depart, what do you say: a generous bonus for them to return promptly to Antwerp, perhaps?”

  Ruggier answered in the Venezian dialect. “I say it is a prudent thing to do, and that you will do what you decide is best.”

  “Da ver’,” di Santo-Germano agreed, and raised his voice as he heard delle Fonde approaching. “You come in good time: what am I to do for you, Signor’ delle Fonde?”

  Delle Fonde halted at the edge of the remuda; behind him the men of the Company brayed and hooted derisively, sounds which delle Fonde made a point of ignoring. “I am about to begin my guard duty”

  “And you come to summon me to my task; thank you,” said di Santo-Germano. He glanced over at Ruggier. “There are only the dun and that new horse—the liver-chestnut-yet to groom.”

  “I will attend to them,” Ruggier assured him. “I’ll let you know when I’ve finished.”

  “Very good,” said di Santo-Germano, and went over to delle Fonde. “I am at your service.”

  The mercenary laughed once. “No, you’re not,” he said, and pointed back toward the others who were finishing their meal. “We are all at your service, careful as you are not to remind us. But it is more than that—you take risks for us, and you pay for more than you agreed to, and you never ask any of us to do more than you would, and you tend to chores to spare us. So: I have seen how you take pains not to dwell on our differences.”

  They were a short distance from the remuda now, going toward the first in a crescent of simple tents. “What would be the purpose of such distinction? We are all traveling the same roads, and for the same reason.”

  “Say what you will,” delle Fonde remarked, emboldened by their coming separation, and less inclined to observe the proprieties than he would have been earlier in their journey, “you and your manservant are unlike others we have escorted. In larger groups, I would not have noticed as much, but with so few of us, and traveling so fast …” He glanced uneasily over his shoulder. “I thank you for not entering into our disputes.”

  “Why should I?” di Santo-Germano asked. “I am not one of Belfountain’s Company, I am the man who engaged your services. I have no place in those disputes, unless they concern me directly.”

  Delle Fonde considered this. “Surely you must have convictions, expectations, and—”

  “I do, but I have learned, over time, to keep most of them to myself,” said di Santo-Germano as they passed the second tent.

  “Yes; though you share our work and our dangers, you hold aloof from us, not just in your dining privately, or in your refusing to drink with us. I cannot help but wonder why.”

  Di Santo-Germano regarded delle Fonde for a long moment, then said, “Let us agree that, in these times and these places, it is safer for you not to know. I have no desire to put you or your comrades at risk for my sake, beyond the risk you have as my escort.”

  “So you have secrets, too,” said delle Fonde.

  “Anyone does, who has lived as long as I have,” said di Santo-Germano, lengthening his stride; delle Fonde, who was much the same height as di Santo-Germano, had to move faster to keep up with the foreigner.

  “Life gives many secrets, soon or late,” delle Fonde agreed, adding quietly, “All of the Company has secrets.”

  “And yours weighs heavily upon you,” said di Santo-Germano.

  Delle Fonde shrugged. “No more than many other men’s do.” He stopped as he heard the bushes rustle. “But I hate to be mocked.”

 
“A wild goat,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “Are you certain? There are wild boar in this region, and bear.”

  “I am certain,” said di Santo-Germano, who could see the animal at the edge of a thicket.

  The men around the campfire got into a scuffle which Belfountain broke up by knocking Mercer’s and Oralle’s heads together.

  “It’s the promise of liberty that makes them fractious,” said delle Fonde. “They are inclined to pull at their bridles.”

  “Then better for them to rest well tonight,” said di Santo-Germano, and they completed their next two rounds of the campsite in silence, watching as the men banked the campfire and went off to their tents, a few of them continuing desultory conversations for a short while, all aware that morning came too quickly to allow them the luxury of midnight discussions. Soon only Ruggier remained awake with delle Fonde and di Santo-Germano tending the horses and cleaning tack in anticipation of the morning ride.

  As they reached the tent farthest from the fire, delle Fonde stopped still, listening to the soft drone of insects and the first snores from his comrades asleep in their tents. “I don’t think I will be staying with Belfountain after this. I am going to claim my prize-money and return home.”

  Di Santo-Germano cocked his head. “Is this a recent decision?”

  “No,” said delle Fonde. “Not really. I have been gone more than nine years, and I know my parents are getting old; they may even be dead, as could anyone. I would like to see them again, if they live, and my two brothers, and my three sisters. I want to know if they are all well. If I could read and write, perhaps I would know something, but—”

  “And where do they live?” asked di Santo-Germano.

  “In the mountains of Savoia,” said delle Fonde, and continued as if compelled to speak. “I thought I would not miss them: we parted badly.” He coughed. “They had arranged a marriage for me—a good marriage in many ways—but the affianced bride and I …”

  “You were not suited to each other,” di Santo-Germano suggested.

  “That was the heart of it. She came from a Catholic family, and I did not.” He held his breath at this revelation. When di Santo-Germano said nothing, delle Fonde scowled, and began to speak again, reciting a story he had known since childhood. “Back in the days of the Crusades, when all the Jews were expelled from France, there was, as a result, a derth of goldsmiths and silversmiths in that country, and so a number of Roman goldsmiths and silversmiths were offered work there. My many-times-great-grandfather had been making molds for coins in Roma—which is how we got our name—”