Communion Blood (17 page)

“Yes, I thought so, too,” said Ragoczy quietly but clearly.

The weeping stopped.

“Whoever you are in the stall, come out,” Ragoczy said, his voice still low but with an undeniable authority in his tone. “I will not harm you.” There was a rustling in the straw; the mare tried to back up but was held in place by Ragoczy’s firm grip on the lead. “Pray don’t make me come in and get you.”

“Have pity,” came the soft response. “Signore. Have pity.” A hand took hold of the edge of the stall door and then a bedraggled figure tottered into sight, a rail-thin figure in an engulfing, smirched penitent’s habit.

The mare stamped in alarm; Ragoczy tied her lead to a metal bracket next to the stall before he went to the woman in dusty penitent’s garb who was clinging to the stall door. “What on earth?”

“Help me, Signore. I am so hungry,” whispered the penitent.

“Please.” Her grip began to fail her and she nearly slid down the wall.

Ragoczy went to hold her up. “Here.” He swung her into his arms with an ease that would have astounded the woman had she been more alert. As it was she gave a little shriek and began to struggle. “No, no,” Ragoczy soothed. “Be calm.”

“Let me go!” she exclaimed in Spanish, trying to push away from him so frantically that he swung her down to her feet. As she did her best to stand upright her veil fell aside and Ragoczy saw her face.

“I know you,” he said, looking past the bruises on her gaunt face. “I have seen you before.”

This did not reassure her. “Alas no, Signore. I do
not...
You cannot know me. I am only a penitent, committed to expiating my sins before I answer to Christ.” That had been enough to get bread at the monastery, and she did not want to reveal anything more.

“Nevertheless I know you,” said Ragoczy, thinking back to the grand reception that Ettore and his Cardinal-cousin had given. “You are—”

“You do not know me.” Leocadia put one hand up, pressing it to his mouth to silence him. “I am no one. I am nothing.”

His curiosity ignited, Ragoczy studied her. “Very well, you are no one.” He noticed the slight tremor in her hand, and the papery texture of her skin. “How long is it since you last ate, No One?” He knew now who she was and recalled he had heard rumors of her disappearance a few days since, rumors he had discounted at the time, for Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte had announced that Leocadia was visiting relatives in Barcelona.

“A day or two,” she said evasively; in truth she had been to the monastery only twice since she fled the city and she could not summon the courage to return there, in case her brother had ordered a search made to find her. “Maybe three.”

Ragoczy shook his head. “And perhaps four or five. You’re weak with hunger.” As she began to deny this, he interrupted her. “I know what it is to starve. You have the look of it.”

She slumped, letting him support her for a short while. “If I may have some bread, I will be on my way.”

“You need more than bread,” Ragoczy informed her. “Here. Lean

Ragoczy vaulted into the saddle, fixed his feet in the stirrups, gathered up the reins, flipped a silver coin to the groom, then touched the mare’s flank with his heel; she moved forward at a fast walk which turned to a trot on the broad, well-kept road that led up to Gran Segretto.

Soon the private drive reached the main road, still rutted from the mud of winter; Ragoczy was forced to pull the mare into a walk and let her pick her way over the uneven ground. She fretted at first, then settled down to a steady pace that covered the distance twice as swiftly as a man could walk. Ragoczy kept his seat and let the night fill him, restoring him and bringing ease to his complicated thoughts: the dangers around him seemed to multiply as he let his mind drift. How strange it felt to be riding to Roma with no Olivia to meet him. From the days of Nero she had been as bound to Roman earth as he was to Carpathian. He could not keep from missing her though he knew he was indulging himself, a luxury that vampires could not afford—memory was one thing, nostalgia was another. He had long ago learned the futility of yearning for what was past. Keeping his attention on his horse, he let the apprehensions that had risen during the evening fade as he made his way home.

Now Giorgianna claimed the center of his reverie; their affaire was going well, but he knew it would not last; neither of them wanted that, as Giorgianna had told him more than a week before. She was as delighted with his generosity as she was puzzled by his lovemaking, which she assumed was intended to keep her from becoming pregnant, a gallantry that pleased her only because he gave her such intense pleasure when they lay together. Currently she regarded his expression of passion as a courtesy, but the day would come when she would not be so understanding. When that happened, the small villa he had hired for her in Roma, and the jewels he lavished on her, and the lyrics he wrote for her, would not be sufficient to keep her from finding a more usual lover. “Probably just as well,” he said aloud, and the mare angled her head to listen. He had tasted her blood three times, one more time would be safe still, but if he should do so a fifth or sixth time, Giorgianna would be at risk, which he was well-aware was no kindness.

Finally he reached the turning for the Villa Vecchia; the monks at

on the wall. As soon as I stall the mare, I will make sure you have a proper meal and a real bed to sleep in.”

Much as she longed for these things, Leocadia stepped back. “I cannot. .. no. It would not be right to accept what you
...”

Ragoczy went about tending to his mare, pleased that the stable- hand had left a measure of grain in the manger as Ragoczy had instructed him to do. “Good girl,” he said to the mare as he removed the halter and checked her water barrel before closing her in for the night. Then he turned his attention to the Cardinal’s sister who had been hiding in his stable. “Come. I will wake the cook.”

“Oh, no. No, no. No one must know I am here,” she whispered as if terrified of being overheard. “A little bread to eat, and I will be gone. Please, Signore.
Please.”

Making up his mind, Ragoczy said, “We will discuss it when you have eaten.”

She shrank back. “But—”

“I will prepare your food; do not worry. No one will see you,” he said at his most compelling, all the while appreciating the irony that he, who had not eaten food in more than thirty-six centuries, was reckoned to be a tolerable cook.

She hung back. “No one will know,” she insisted.

“If that is what you want,” he told her, and led the way from the stable into the old kitchen of the Villa Vecchia.

Text of a letter from Archbishop Siegfried Walmund of Oldenburg to Podesta Narcisso della Rovere; delivered by personal messenger.

To the most respected Podesta Narcisso della Rovere, the blessings of God and the Archbishop Siegfried Walmund upon you;

My dear Magistrate, I approach you to ask a favor of you, one that I dare to hope you will be gracious enough to grant to me: if you would postpone the hearing of the suit of Ahrent Julius Rothofen and Niklos Aulirios until the middle of May, I would deem it a personal service, one that I will remember for as long as I am in Roma.

It has come to my attention that certain new proofs have been found that bear favorably on Rothofen’s cause, but they are not yet in Roma, and it will be some time until they are. In these circum-

stances I ask you to consider granting a reasonable postponement. It is in your power to grant a respite, shall we call it, so that the papers may be brought to you for your consideration. If you wish to have the whole of Rothofen’s claim before you, you will welcome this delay in the name of justice and the honor of the Magisterial Courts.

Do not suppose that I am unaware of the inconvenience this may impose upon you, for that is far from the case. Indeed, I have prayed long hours before charging my secretary with the task of writing to you, in the hope that such measures would not be necessary, for it is repugnant to me to intervene in matters not of the Church. Yet in spite of my reservations, I find it necessary to make this request so that you may, in all informed fairness, decide the matter. You must not want to err in your decision as it will have afar-reaching impact on many lives, therefore it will behoove you to authorize the delay in order to have the whole of the case before you.

I trust you will forgive my intrusion into the dealings of the Magisterial Court, and account my action that of one attempting to see justice done.

With the assurance of my continuing interest in this proceeding, and with the promise to remember your kindness to my associate, Ahrent Rothofen, I am

Your most devoted to command, Siegfried Walmund of Oldenburg Archbishop

In Roma by the hand of Padre Giacomo Belorcio, on the 19th day of April, 1689

8

Another month!” Niklos Aulirios burst out as he flung down the notice from the Magisterial Courts. “I begin to think this will
never
be heard.”

Ragoczy looked up from the score spread out on the trestle table

at the far end of the reception hall at Senza Pari. “More delay?” He was preparing for the rehearsal scheduled to begin in an hour, and this outburst demanded an immediate response.

“Until the third week in May,” Niklos said as he picked up the folded vellum and smoothed it out. “Podesta della Rovere has decided to wait for more evidence, or so his clerk tells me.” He had switched from Italian to Byzantine Greek as a precaution against any eavesdroppers.

“Rothofen has been busy, it would seem,” Ragoczy said quietly in the same language. He straightened up and stacked the score carefully. “What is the excuse this time?”

Niklos made an impatient gesture with his hand. “There is supposed to be a new proof of his claim in the north that will prove his case beyond all question. Podesta della Rovere has decided to grant him time enough to have it brought to Roma. For fairness’ sake.”

“A clever ruse, under the circumstances,” Ragoczy said. “To claim that the father of Olivia’s fictitious husband legitimized a bastard son and made him his heir is shaky enough, but to claim that takes precedence over the Will of her husband which left all to her beyond any reasonable claim.”

“But, Conte, that so-called Will of Olivia’s supposed husband is as false as any proof Rothofen may put forth,” Niklos reminded him.

“No doubt. But that Will was accepted by the Roman Magisterial Courts decades ago,” Ragoczy reminded him.

“That is one thing we may be thankful for,” Niklos agreed. “There are many sitting Magistrates who would support that Will because it has been accepted. But della Rovere might not be such a one.”

Ragoczy recalled Ettore Colonna’s warning, that della Rovere was eager to please the Church, and so he said, “It may depend on where the request is originating. If Archbishop Walmund has interceded on Rothofen’s behalf, it is probable that della Rovere will try to oblige him.”

“That is what I feared,” said Niklos, a frown setting into his handsome features. “Nothing I have can combat the favor of the Church, if it comes to that.”

“And, sadly, it may,” Ragoczy said, unable to console Niklos with half-truths. “We must prepare for that eventuality. I have a few schemes in mind that may suffice.” He laid his small hand on the score and said, “If you are to prevail, we must be as conniving as Rothofen is, but without the appearance of it.”

“So easily done,” said Niklos without apology for his sarcasm. “More easily than you might think.” Ragoczy stood very still for a long moment, then strode energetically down the room, the heels of his soft-topped boots making a sharp report with each step. “You and I must not seem to be doing anything to counteract the work of Rothofen, for we might easily be dragged into conflict with the Archbishop, and that is something neither of us wants.”

“I am listening,” said Niklos, observing Ragoczy closely as he moved.

“I will need you to bring me some of the old parchments from Olivia’s muniment room. Nothing essential, nothing that cannot be spared, but yet old enough that the age of the parchment is readily discerned.” He switched back to Italian. “I want to examine some of the records, if they still exist, to show the manner in which this villa has been maintained over the years, and by whom.”

“Of course,” said Niklos, feeling baffled; he, too, spoke in Italian. “But for what reason?”

“Why, to establish that Olivia has kept the estates in accord with the traditions of their previous owners, and to show that you have honored their traditions.” Ragoczy came back toward him. “After the rehearsal, give them to me and I will inspect them.”

“Very good,” said Niklos. He was about to leave the reception hall when Giorgianna Ferrugia appeared, her cheeks slightly flushed from the wine she had drunk at her mid-day meal. Her arrival startled him, and he bowed to her. “God give you good day, Signora.” He used the more complimentary honorific, for although she was not married, she was accounted a woman of substance.

“And you, Signore,” she said automatically; she was intent on Ragoczy, and she made no apology for her direct approach to him. “Conte, I have wanted to talk to you about the opera.”

Ragoczy smiled at her. “What is it?” He came and kissed her hand, then lightly touched her lips with his own. “Does something bother you, carina?”

“Not
bothers
me, exactly,” she said, wheedling charmingly. “But are you
sure
that Nerone should be a tenor?”

“Of course I am; and so is Maestro Scarlatti.” He did not mention that it had taken several discussions to persuade the composer to write the role for a tenor. “Think how far above his voice your voice will soar. He will make declarations with fervor, but you will be beyond his reach.”

She dimpled in elation, and with such open smugness that she made her ambition quite engaging. “Oh, yes. I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, I will, won’t I?”

“You will. And the tenor will sing close harmony with you in some passages and will support your melody line in others.” It was a gross oversimplification, but it served its point. “You need not worry about being—”