Communion Blood (40 page)

“She is thinner than I remember,” said Archbishop Walmund to Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte as he strolled through central gallery of the Cardinal’s palazzo; it was a chilly place this afternoon, as a north wind was blowing, promising rain by nightfall. “You say she is in good health?” “Her health is excellent. She spent some of her time away in a convent, fasting and praying, so it is not remarkable that she should be thinner than when you last saw her,” Martin, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte said smoothly as he indicated the door to his withdrawing room. “She is a most devout girl.”

“So it would seem,” said Archbishop Walmund. “No doubt she would provide my brother an excellent example.” He sighed. “His physician has cupped him twice this month in order to lessen the heat of his passions, but I cannot see that he has improved.” He rubbed his chin. “If we did not have the Nativity celebrations in two days, I would recommend we arrange a time for their wedding at once; as it is, we must wait until Epiphany is past, or risk speculation that the wedding was forced upon them because of unchastity.” “Yes,” the Cardinal agreed, thinking it was no more than the truth, although not in the way that Roman society would interpret it. “But in the fortnight immediately following, we will have their Nuptial Mass. We will accomplish this binding of Houses with all haste, so that we may put into action the course we have determined.” His voice was soft but his intentions shone in his eyes. “You need have no fear that she will not be ready: she will accept your brother without cavil. I will engage seamstresses to make her bride-clothes at once. The time is short, and it is the Nativity, but many women will be glad of a chance to earn a few coins and to help the sister of a man as high in the Church as I, especially at so holy a time.”

“Very good,” Archbishop Walmund exclaimed. “I am glad to hear this. But if you find it should take somewhat longer to arrange the wedding, I will not be distressed.”

“Do you mean you do not think she will be willing?” The Cardinal bristled at the suggestion.

“No; for you assure me that she will do as you bid her. I only suggest that it may take longer to arrange the occasion appropriately, in a manner that would satisfy your King as well as Alessandro VIII and the Count of Oldenburg. We would not want to make it appear that this marriage is a slight to anyone whose good opinion we hope to enlist.” Archbishop Walmund put the tips of his fingers together. “On that head: you have confirmation from the Spanish Court that your assurances of preserving our association will be honored no matter who rules in Spain?”

“Of course. It is in Spanish interests as well as Oldenburg’s to have a German presence in the New World,” said Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte tranquilly; he reminded himself that it was near enough the truth not to be a falsehood, for he had the spoken promise of the King’s courier that a formal announcement of their terms of agreement would be ready by the beginning of Lent.

“That is welcome news,” said Archbishop Walmund. “I will inform my brother that all is in readiness.” His smile was nothing more than a spreading of his lips, but the two men understood each other.

“You and your brother may fix the actual date, and I will inform my sister that she is about to become a bride.” He folded his arms. “She may be reticent at first, but I assure you that she will be brought to see the need for this union. You must understand that she has long sought to be married with passion, as so many foolish women do. I have told her that if she is wise, she must strive to hold the affection of her husband, and his respect, neither of which will sustain passion for long.” His expression showed how willing he was to make allowances for the impulsiveness of youth. “She has had time to consider the situation, and I must say she is now more sensible.”

“Very good,” the Archbishop approved. “I would not like to have my brother regret his alliance with your family.”

“How could he regret our common goals? There is more to be gained for him than sons to bear his name,” Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte exclaimed. “He must know this alliance will earn him the gratitude of Oldenburg, and the King of Spain?”

“I shall remind him that it will. So we are in accord.” Archbishop Walmund bowed slightly to his host. “You will have to excuse me. I am sure you understand.”

“You have many things to attend to, as do I,” said the Cardinal, his conduct impeccable. “I am grateful to you for sparing me time this afternoon, given the duties of the season.”

“Which impinge upon you, also,” said Archbishop Walmund. “No doubt we will meet at San Pietro later?”

“No doubt,” Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte agreed, and stood at the top of his grand staircase in order to watch Archbishop Walmund descend to be escorted to his waiting carriage by two of the Cardinal’s footmen. Only when the Archbishop’s coach had rattled away from the palazzo did the Cardinal abandon his place at the top of the stairs to go to Leocadia’s apartments. He found her kneeling in prayer, her face taut with emotion that was unpleasant enough to make her clench her teeth. As she caught sight of her brother, she paled and grabbed hold of the crucifix she wore on a chain around her neck. “Leave me alone!” she whispered, as if fending off an agent of Satan and not a Prince of the Church.

Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte stood in the doorway, his face impassive. “You misunderstand me, Leocadia. I have not come to chastise you, nor to be polluted by your seductions”—he paid no attention to her single cry of protest—“but only to inform you that as soon as possible after Epiphany you will be married to Hubert Christian Lothar Walmund. His brother has just spent some time with it. Due to your long absence there were certain matters we needed to clarify. That has been done and we are agreed upon all the points of your marriage contract.”

“I won’t do it,” said Leocadia, her voice trembling. “How often must I say it?”

“But you will. The fortunes of this House are depending on this alliance. I will not countenance any more defiance from you. I have the right to compel you, and I am prepared to use all the authority the Church and the law have given me.” He sounded affable enough, but his eyes glittered. “You forced me to subdue you upon your return, and brought sin upon us both through your obstinacy. I would not touch you if you did
not...”
He looked away from her in order to compose himself; then he said, “If you do not comply, I will have to do the same again, and you will answer for it before God.”

Leocadia was visibly shaking, but she faced her brother. “If you do anything of the sort to me again, I will announce in church, before the altar and in the presence of all the wedding-guests, that you have made me your whore, and that no man of honor should touch me.” She glared at him, her eyes glazed with fear. “You will have to let me go to a convent then, if only to keep the House from disgrace.” The Cardinal’s face darkened. “You will do nothing of the kind. You are not so foolhardy as that.”

“We shall see,” she said, her conviction faltering.

“You know you will be called a liar, and no one will believe you,” he said in a calm, menacing tone. “You have already gained a reputation for precariousness of character: such a denunciation would set the seal on your volatility—it would not harm me. It would be a desperate thing to do—lunacy, in fact.”

“I would
make
them believe!” Leocadia forced herself to stand firm, although she was certain that he was right.

“You are a headstrong, willful, unwomanly creature. God surely tested me when He made you my sister.” The Cardinal glowered in Leocadia’s direction. “You have done all that you can to ruin me, but I will not permit that to happen.”

“I have no desire to ruin you,” Leocadia protested. “But I do not want to have to marry a man with the pox, though it would bring you the gratitude of ten Kings and all the riches of the New World.” Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte laughed in furious incredulity. “You can lie to me in spite of everything? Of course you are determined to ruin me. You have made that your purpose since you first made me forget my vows and my position. You have striven to bring me down, and you have stopped at nothing—no sin was too repugnant for you. If you had not lured me, I would never have touched you, as God knows. No wonder we are taught that women are the handmaidens of damnation.” He pointed to her. “You will marry the Archbishop’s brother. I will see to it that you receive your separate maintenance when you have provided him an heir. The Archbishop wants two sons, but I know he will accept one.”

“And if I have no children? Or if I have daughters? What then?” Her voice had risen in pitch.

“The contract stipulates sons; that is not unusual, and you know it. It will behoove you to pray to the Virgin for sons, so that you may soon have your own establishment.” The Cardinal smiled. “You can always return here, where Ursellos and I can provide protection for you, and for your reputation. You know what Romans think of Spaniards: they suppose we are all cut from the same cloth as the Boija y Laras were.”

Leocadia swallowed hard, revulsion in every line of her being. “I think that would not be wise,” she said at last.

“You still long for the cloistered life? You, of all women? You, who are so full of lust that you incite it wherever you go?” Cardinal Ca- laveria y Vacamonte asked. “Yet perhaps you are right: you need to devote yourself to God’s cause. You have many sins to expiate. If you insist on thwarting my plans, it may be best to send you to the Sisters who care for the mad, for that is what you must be, to act thus.” His tone sharpened. “Do not add disobedience to the catalogue. Resign yourself to this marriage and ask God to give you humility so that you may serve your House, your Church, and your King. That will show your submission to His Will.”

“God’s? Not yours?” She could see the change in his face and braced herself for another attack.

It did not come. “You will soon enough be brought to order by your husband. I will not be lured by you.” He made the sign of the Cross and took a step backward.

“If you will leave me alone, I will continue my prayers,” she said truculently to conceal her despair.

Her brother was not satisfied. “I know your duplicity of old. I warn you, sister: you will bitterly regret any act of defiance you may be considering. You would do well to keep that in mind.” He turned abruptly and left her.

Leocadia sank down on her heels, holding her knees to her chest and shaking all over as if with ague. Without knowing it, she began to weep, her eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to dam the tears. Prayers stuck in her throat and she knew beyond question that she was beyond all succor; no one could help her: Heaven would not intervene and any earthly aid would lead only to the Pope’s Little House for any fool attempting to ease her plight. She shoved her fist into her mouth to keep from making any sound. Now, when it was too late, she wished she had confided in Ragoczy, had told him what her brother had done to her, and what he was demanding of her. She wanted to believe that the Conte might have continued to shelter her, or provided her some means of escape, for it was rumored that he had helped that old mathematician to get out of Italy; he might have done the same for her had she appealed to him: even if he had not believed her, he might have taken pity on her unhappiness, and done what he could to alleviate it. She castigated herself for her failure to have courage and for such disloyal thoughts. Gradually, she fell onto her side and remained there, her knees still drawn up against her chest, and still more gradually, she fell asleep.

She was wakened some time later as her maid brought her bread, cheese, and water on a tray; the woman looked abashed as she put this on the table at the end of Leocadia’s bed.

“Your brother ordered this for you,” the maid whispered.

“No doubt,” said Leocadia as she strove to gather her thoughts. “He has ordered me to pray for humility.”

The maid shook her head. “You have prayed as much as any nun,” she said, doing her best to lend Leocadia her support.

“It would seem I have prayed for the wrong thing,” said Leocadia, looking at the austere fare; she feared the taste of it would make her vomit.

“I was told I could not stay with you. I must not linger.” The maid curtsied and went to the door. “I will come tomorrow morning.”

“Very good,” said Leocadia automatically, hardly noticing when the door closed. She looked at the meager supper she had been provided, and although she knew she was hungry, she could not bring herself to eat any of it. She went to her bed and sat on the side of it, staring fixedly at nothing while she tried to reconcile herself to Martin’s orders; gradually the long shadows faded into night and still she did not move. She could hear the sounds of the household, but distantly: her brothers were sitting down to their dinner, an elaborate meal that would last for well over an hour; at ten she knew Ursellos would leave to seek his usual evening entertainments. Her thoughts began

to drift and she imagined herself far away from this palazzo in Roma.

A melody curled through her visions, plaintive and sweet, and it took her a short while to realize that she was not remembering it— someone was playing the violin in the street below. Brought back to her immediate situation, Leocadia listened intently, recognizing the old-fashioned ballade as one she had heard Maurizio play in the garden at Villa Vecchia. “It can’t be,” she said aloud, hardly able to give credence to the excitement that welled in her. “He would not do anything so ... so absurd.” Her attempt at laughter failed utterly. She got up from the bed and went to the shuttered window; she adjusted the louvers to listen; the wind that slipped inside was bitterly cold, making her acutely aware of the extent to which the young violinist had gone to comfort her. For a while she let the music envelop her, making a barrier between her and the world. Then she heard Ursellos.

“Here are two silver Emperors. Take them for your trouble and go. You play well, but we want no musicians here.”

She could not hear Maurizio’s answer, but his playing ceased, and Leocadia felt more alone than before. That fine young artist had been so attentive to her at Villa Vecchia, she thought, always taking time to console her with music. She had not paid much heed then, and only now realized how much comfort she had taken in his kindness. It was tempting to go to the window to summon him back, but she knew that her brothers would then make a point of driving Maurizio off, and would not allow him to come near her again: that, she decided, would be intolerable. She would have to find a way to let Maurizio know she enjoyed his unusual serenade. With this uppermost in her mind, she fell asleep, hoping for inspiration in the night that would give her some occasion for hope.