Saint-Germain 24: An Embarrassment of Riches: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Comes Santu-Germaniu?”

  The voice came from close behind him; Rakoczy pulled the francisca from where it lay under his belt along his back as he turned, the small throwing axe in his hand as he met the eyes of the speaker. He found himself facing a page in a Royal tabard, who paled at the sight of the weapon Rakoczy held. “Your pardon.”

  The page shivered from something other than cold; he spoke flatly, no emotion of any kind in his recitation, and he stared at a point somewhere over Rakoczy’s left shoulder. “The Konige has asked you to attend her Court within the walls when the procession is over. She and the Konig will hold Court in the Great Hall. She asks that you bring your lyre; there are songs she wants you to sing for her and her Court. I have been charged to bring the lyre to you, if you will tell me what I am to say at Mansion Belcrady to receive it.”

  “If you will first tell the dear Royal I am honored to be included in her Court on this day.” He paused, ordering his thoughts. “At Mansion Belcrady ask for my manservant Hruther, who will bring the lyre to me in your company. Tell him the reason for this summons, and he will reward you with a silver Moravia.”

  The page ducked his head. “Do you want me to bring him to you?”

  “If you would. After you inform the Konige of my answer, use the back-street and you will reach Mansion Belcrady without difficulty. If you try to go down this street, it will take you half a day to get there.” Rakoczy slid the francisca back into his belt at the small of his back. He recalled his battle with Saito Masashige at Chui-Cho fortress when the francisca had proved invaluable.

  The page signaled his compliance and disappeared amid the flood of people who poured into the square ahead of the procession. A dozen foot-soldiers emerged from the castle and attempted to push back the throng, but without much success. A short while later, Rakoczy saw the page kneel to Konige Kunigunde, then rise and depart again. The soldiers and the crowd continued to jostle as the wind snapped at the banners unfurled along the battlements.

  Rakoczy drew back farther into the shadows, making sure his back was against the wall of Mansion Czernin. He was still filled with the sense that he was under observation, and that left him edgy. He could not bring himself to go to the Konige’s Court stand although he knew he would be permitted to sit there; the stand was too exposed and so crowded that movement between its benches would hamper any attempt at a quick departure.

  There was a sudden burst in excitement around the square; people strained against the foot-soldiers holding them back, and then the Episcopus’ burnished sorrels appeared, with the grandly decorated wagon behind it. The Episcopus was standing, his crozier in his hand, surrounded by his shivering angels. The wagon stopped in front of the Konige’s Court stand, and the Episcopus made the sign of blessing over the Court, then turned and blessed Konige Kunigunde where she stood in the open gateway before going into the forecourt of Vaclav Castle. The Counselors of Praha, some of them red-faced with exertion, were the next to arrive, and they all bowed to the Konige’s Court and then the Konige herself, then followed the Episcopus’ wagon. The consort of musicians played a short dance-tune for the Konige’s Court, the rendition more forced than spritely, and afterward went through the gate and into the forecourt, their steps faltering. The spectators sent up another cheer of approval for the Weavers’ Guild and their wagon with its large black lion.

  Two more wagons arrived and were permitted to enter Vaclav Castle, but the dancers and musicians were left to fill the courtyard with their tunes and antics. It was not long before there was an eruption of cacophony as two different groups of musicians began to compete for the crowd’s attention. Most of the spectators enjoyed the improvised contest, but some did not; Konige Kunigunde made a point of putting her hands to her ears, her face pale. Next to her, Kinga was bouncing again, grinning at the din. Rakoczy did his best not to flinch at the more strained notes, and hoped that when he played for the Konige he would not have such contention to deal with. As he waited for the next wagon to appear, Rakoczy again found himself thinking about Imbolya of Heves and wondering if she truly wanted his intimacy. He was so preoccupied that he almost reached for his francisca when Hruther laid his hand on his shoulder, saying, “My master, I have your lyre.”

  Rakoczy took the instrument, holding it carefully to keep it from being damaged by the milling people.

  “Perhaps the Konige will allow you to enter the forecourt before the end of the procession?” Hruther suggested. “It’s safer.”

  “So it is,” Rakoczy agreed, and started toward the open gate where the Konige stood, greeting all those who were passing through to the next round of entertainment; Hruther followed him, watching the crowd and trying not to hear the worst of the musicians.

  Konige Kunigunde accepted the bow Rakoczy and Hruther offered and motioned them on, saying, “I look forward to hearing you, Comes.”

  “It will be my honor to perform for you, dear Royal,” he assured her, and hoped it was true.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Atta Olivia Clemens in Flanders to Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus in Praha, written in Imperial Latin on vellum and carried by personal messenger, delivered thirty-eight days after it was written.

  To my oldest, most revered friend, the greetings and good wishes of Atta Olivia Clemens on this, the fourth day of November in the Christian year of 1269.

  My treasured Sanct’ Germain,

  Recent trouble here has become truly hazardous, so I have decided that it would be wise for me to leave Flanders for the time being, not for the reasons you might think. This has little to do with my right to own the land or problems of erosion, although both are present, nor it is because I have come under scrutiny that might expose me. I have decided to spend the winter in Sant-Pons and then, when the roads are dry, to go on to Lecco and stay there for a while. My situation has become difficult and I see no advantage in remaining here while all I do is left under a cloud of suspicion from a gaggle of nuns who have nothing else to do but accuse decent widows—I count myself among them—of dealing with the Devil. Already three have been condemned to prison cells for no greater crime than living without the so-called protection of a male relative; as a foreigner and a person of means, I have to prepare to defend myself against the insinuations that I am a tool of Satan, or depart.

  How did it happen, that the Church insinuated itself into every aspect of life as it has? A century ago there was a clear line between the laity and the clergy, and each had its recognized province. But since they stopped priests from taking wives—and leaving Church lands to their sons—the Church has been tightening its grip on everything. They find heresy and devils everywhere, and declare no one is safe. The nuns here at Sant-Laizare are hardly unusual, for there are many convents and monasteries that have seen outbreaks of visionary nonsense that belongs more to fables than to faith, but, of course, we are speaking here of cloistered women who only pray, spin, pray, weave, pray, sing, pray, eat only enough to keep from starving, pray, and pray. On such a regimen, I would have visions, too. Of course, the visions are carnalistic, and that implies, according to the local Episcopus, that there must be an external cause, for no devout ladies ever had so much as a hint of lust or desire for anything but the choirs of Heaven. Thus accusations have fallen on three widows in the area as I have said, and I may well be next.

  I was hoping to remain here another five years, but that would be unwise. Niklos has told me that he is convinced this place is unsafe. They’ve burned heretics in Hainault—six widows, a midwife, four prostitutes, one catamite, and an old woman with a hump—and it may be that they will also burn witches in Brabant and Flanders. If that should occur, it would be better if I were gone from this place. Fire, as you taught me so long ago, kills vampires as well as the living. And if I am burned, my estate will go to the Church, since I would have fallen to the snares of Satan, a consideration that is only an afterthought to the zealous Episcopus. Lecco should be safe enough for a year or two, and by
then I will be able to find a place where I would not become the focus of religious disapproval.

  It is the Crusades that have done this—this ferocity in the name of Jesus the Savior. They’re saying that there will be yet another one. What number is that—seven? eight? Haven’t any of the rulers learned that they will not conquer the Holy Land no matter how laudable they claim their cause is? The followers of Mohammed will not give up their faith any more than the Christians will give up theirs. No slaughter will lessen the devotion of either side, but it will create a taste for vengeance and rapine, as we see. That it should spread to those called heretics shouldn’t surprise anyone now that the nobles have acquired the rewards of their dogmatism.

  I am in the process of helping my so-called half-brother Niklos in deeding my estate over to my “niece” and her “husband,” both of whom have written to accept this bequest. I have found a steward to manage the place in my absence and have obtained pledges from the Dux that the deed and its terms will be upheld, which is the most I can hope for, given that there still is no Pope to endorse my claims.

  If I lose this estate, then I will lose it, but it is better to go while I still can leave of my own accord. Niklos has already secured a villa for me near Sant-Pons and I will leave in six days. Half of my chests and crates are packed and will soon be loaded onto the best wagons I possess. I am choosing the horses I shall take with me, most of them coldbloods. They’re already fuzzy as dandelions, which will help to keep out the cold. I have decided to ride in the saddle most of the way, and will select my riding horses for the journey in a day or two, so they may be given extra feed in preparation for the journey ahead.

  In spring I will set out for Lecco and will send you word of my departure, assuming I know where you are. If you are no longer in Praha or Bohemia, I will send messages to Eclipse Trading in Roma and in Venezia, and you may have them sent on to wherever you are. I must tell you that I hope you will stay closer to home for a time. Those years you were in China were most distressing to me, aware you were alive but with no idea where. Spare me that for a decade or two, will you? I know you do not travel on whim, but I ask you to choose a place next time that I might expect a letter to reach you in less than a year.

  And with that supplication, I will send you my loyal friendship and my

  Undying love,

  Olivia

  5

  Because it was snowing outside, Imbolya had on a wolf-skin mantel with a hood that framed her face in soft gray fur; she stood just inside the door of Rakoczy’s workroom, her gloved hands folded in the deep pleats of the mantel. “You are most kind to see me, Comes, unexpected as I might be.” She spoke Magyar.

  Rakoczy nodded to Barnon. “Hot wine and honey tarts for the Konige’s lady-in-waiting,” he said in Bohemian, then addressed Imbolya in Magyar, “I understood from you that Csenge of Somogy is the Konige’s messenger now.” He went to put more cut branches on the fire. “I am pleased to see you, and I apologize for not coming to the Konige’s Court, but as you may know, Konig Otakar has ordered me to keep to my house until the Solstice festivities. I am to receive only those persons the Konige or the Council sends to me.”

  Barnon remained in the room, occupying himself with putting a cloth on the low table next to the fireplace. He did his best to make it appear that he was not listening to them.

  “Yes, Csenge is the Konige’s messenger now, and ordinarily it would be she who called upon you, but as the Konige wishes to have jewels selected for her daughters for the Nativity: she sent me because of my greater knowledge concerning jewels. I have been charged to examine all the stones you have that might be suitable and to choose for Kinga and Agnethe.” She paused. “The ones I approve are to be presented at the Solstice banquet, which the Konig will allow you to attend. I don’t know if he will want you to attend Kinga’s anniversary ”

  “If that is the Konige’s desire—that I should give her daughters gems—then I am happy to serve her. That is why Konig Bela sent me here.”

  Imbolya hesitated, then plunged ahead. “The Konig thinks you’re a spy for Konig Bela, you know. He thinks your exile is a ruse, and that you have been given a mission to watch Otakar’s Court. That’s why he has ordered you to remain in your house while he holds Court here in Praha.” Color mounted in her face. “I don’t think you’re a spy.”

  “Why do you think that?” Rakoczy asked, his curiosity piqued.

  “Because you keep to yourself and do not spend your time at Court. If you were a spy, you’d have to find out things, wouldn’t you? You can’t learn many secrets here, and when you answer the Konige’s summons, you take no advantage of it to insinuate yourself into her good graces with flattery and favors.” She courtisied to him. “It seems that way to me.”

  “I do bring her jewels,” Rakoczy pointed out.

  “As Konig Bela charged you to do,” she said. “You do your duty to her, handsomely, but nothing more than that. So if you are spying, you don’t do it very well.”

  “You will want to be comfortable,” Rakoczy said, shifting their conversation; he directed her to the upholstered chair facing the hearth. “I will have more candles brought—if you will attend to that as well, Barnon? Two branches, if you would.” Low light was no hardship for his eyes, but he knew Imbolya would want brightness in order to examine the jewels. “And see that my guest’s carriage is taken to the stable and her horses watered and each given a handful of grain. Her escort are to have cheese, bread, and wine in the servants’ room. Make sure the fire is well-stoked.”

  “Of course, Comes,” Barnon said, and backed out of the room, leaving them alone.

  “Your bondsman told me where to find you,” Imbolya said when they were alone. “He offered to escort me, but your steward—”

  “—claimed the honor,” said Rakoczy, adjusting the black cotehardie of satin-lined wool he wore over a chainse of deep-red silk. “That is correct for a Bohemian household, is it not?”

  “Yes. It is the way of things in Bohemia.” Imbolya pulled off her gloves and set them on the arm of the chair. “The fire is very nice.”

  “That is kind of you,” said Rakoczy. “When you are warm enough, I will take your mantel.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and fell silent, staring at the flames that were rising in the fireplace. “Carniola has surrendered to Otakar.”

  “When?” Rakoczy asked. “Is it official?”

  “The deputation arrived last night. Otakar has lands all the way to the sea now. He wants the Bohemian Empire to get larger and stronger.” She sighed. “The Konig has ordered four of his Captains who were caught stealing supplies to be hanged in chains at the south gates.”

  “Because of the surrender of Carniola?”

  “Because he wants to discourage thieves,” said Imbolya. “Now that he is successful he thinks more of his officers will want to share in his accomplishments with … allotments of their own choosing.”

  Rakoczy frowned. “What does the Episcopus say?”

  “He says that God has given the Konig power in the world and it is for Otakar to uphold the Will of God, and to root out the Devil and all his works. He says that God gave Otakar Carinthia and Carniola, and Austria, and that Otakar is approved by Heaven or that wouldn’t have happened, because God favors the righteous.” She looked away from him, feeling the efflorescence in her face and wanting, in some confused way, to conceal it from Rakoczy.

  “What does Konig Bela say? Or Rudolph von Hapsburg?” Rakcozy wondered aloud; he was aware of her discomfort and did what he could to allow her to restore herself.

  “The Episcopus hasn’t spoken about either of them. If there were a Pope in Roma, he might have another view.” Absently she crossed herself. “It is hard to see Hungary lose to Bohemia for those of us who have been sent to the Konige from Hungary, and hardest for the Konige, who is torn between her husband and her grandfather. All of us from Hungary feel it, but Kunigunde suffers most.”

  Rakoczy nodded. “She, to
o, is trapped.”

  “I think, no matter what the Konige believes, that it might be just as well that she had a second daughter, for a son could be as torn as she is in where his loyalties might lie.” She put her hand to her lips. “You won’t tell anyone what I’ve said, will you? The Konige would be upset to know I think a daughter now is better than a son. She would think me inconstant and might send me away.”

  “But a girl could be as divided in her loyalties, especially if her marriage is the seal on a treaty, as Kunigunde herself has been; and no, I will not repeat any of what you tell me,” said Rakoczy, thinking back to Mnekore, almost two millennia ago. He lowered his eyes to the fire. “It is a pity her father is dead: as Konig of Bulgaria and Grand Dux of Kiev, he might have been able to do something to arrange a peace among Otakar, Bela, and Rudolph.”

  “The Bulgarian Tsars are too busy murdering and being murdered for any help to come from that quarter. No one trusts the Bulgarian Tsars to uphold their oaths of alliance. Both of the Konige’s sisters’ husbands were Tsars and they were murdered.” For several heartbeats she was still. “Have you thought any more about what I said at the civic procession?” she asked, not looking at him.

  “Have I thought about becoming your clandestine lover?” he inquired, to be certain they understood each other.

  “Yes. About that.”

  “I have thought about it,” he admitted, leaning against the pillar that flanked the fireplace. “Have you? considered what might happen?”

  “Yes,” she said with asperity. “I have thought about little else. If you will accept me—”