Communion Blood (61 page)

Ragoczy closed his eyes in a rush of sorrow. That Giorgianna had been in the hands of the Holy Office on his account—he could not imagine how terrified she must have been. He made himself remain silent as the shortest priest came up to him and began to examine the scars. Had Ragoczy been much younger, he would have been tempted to fight with the man, certain that his vampiric strength would allow him an easy victory over the priest, but in his long life he had learned that such impulsive acts were usually more dangerous and foolhardy than strategic; now he kept still and paid close attention to what was happening around him.

“The scars go to the base of his hips,” the shortest priest announced. “The wounds that left these were severe.”

They were fatal, thought Ragoczy, his feature expressing only the aggravation that these men might expect. He took a step back as the priest touched his penis. “I think not,” he said sharply, authority in his voice.

“It is essential that we confirm the report,” said the shortest priest, a bit too eagerly.

“What report?” Now Ragoczy was confused: did this inquiry stem from the South American records, or some others?

“You may not ask that,” said the oldest. “You are to answer our questions.” He leaned forward. “Well?”

As the shortest priest continued his examination, the tallest said, “According to Amerigo, your coachman, you have sometimes been alone with a woman in your coach.”

Trying not to let the shortest priest distract him, Ragoczy said, “Yes. Occasionally Giorgianna Ferrugia has been good enough to accompany me in my coach. Not since she became a married woman, of course.”

“Of course,” said the tallest. “When you were alone together, did you never press your advantage with her?”

“What advantage do you mean?” Ragoczy asked, already guessing.

“The advantage a man has over a woman,” said the oldest.

Ragoczy shook his head. “If you mean did I kiss her, or fondle her, yes, I did, as long as she was willing I do so. If you mean did I force myself on her, no I did not. It is no easy thing
to...
take a woman in a moving coach when you have her full consent; if she resists, I doubt it would be possible.”

“Your coachman supports your assertions,” said the oldest, and asked nothing more.

The shortest priest was manipulating Ragoczy’s flesh, his ministrations as expert as a courtesan’s; the other two remained quiet and attentive. “There is no life here that I can find,” he said a short while later, sounding disappointed.

Ragoczy kept his voice level. “Had you asked, I would have told you I am impotent.”

The shortest priest went back to the writing table. “But that is a thing a man might readily lie about if he is accused of rape.” The last words crackled in accusation.

“Rape?” Ragoc
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y said, too baffled to be insulted. “Whom am I to have raped?”

“That we cannot tell you,” said the oldest, seeming to be satisfied by Ragoczy’s outburst. “We hold all such accusations under the Seal of Confession.”

“The matter we must determine is if it is possible for you to commit such an outrage, for it is very evident someone has.” The tallest priest tapped his fingers on the table; it was an irritating sound that Ragoczy suspected was intended to increase the distress of the person being questioned.

“If that is what you seek, good Fathers,” said Ragoczy as civilly as he could, “then I fear you must look elsewhere. I will always disappoint you in such crimes.” His bow, in his undressed state, would have been ludicrous had he not had a subtle air of command that was usually seen in much taller men.

“You are unmoved by a woman’s caress, and a man’s,” said the tallest priest, his lips nearly smirking. “You should be one of us.”

The very idea revolted him; Ragoczy inclined his head slightly. “I have not had a calling, good Fathers, and I understand that such a calling is essential.”

“Amen, et benedicamus Domino,” said the oldest with a kind of

habitual piety that made Ragoczy uneasy. “You may put your clothing on again.”

“Thank you,” said Ragoczy, and began to dress, not hurriedly but with efficiency.

“Do you need a mirror?” asked the shortest snidely.

“You are good to offer it, but it is not necessary,” said Ragoczy, adding, “I have dressed on campaign so many times that I have learned to manage without.” He was gratified that this was at least partly true.

“Ah, yes. You have fought the Ottomites,” said the oldest, putting the tips of his fingers together and regarding Ragoczy over the peak.

“Yes.” He said nothing more, not wanting to appear boastful.

“You have defended your homeland and your faith,” said the shortest.

“As much as I have been able to do,” Ragoczy said, once again enjoying the irony of truth. “There have been many battles in those mountains.”

“Your troops have been put into the service of the Pope,” said the tallest.

“Yes,” Ragoczy agreed. He was almost dressed now, and he put himself in order with minimal fuss.

“Are your neighboring nobles of the same mind you are?” The oldest leaned forward.

“Some are, some are not,” Ragoczy replied, certain they knew the answer already. “The region has long been troubled, and there are those who see their survival in siding with whomever they reckon is the most powerful.”

“But you do not,” said the shortest.

“I do not side with the Turks,” said Ragoczy. He stood very straight. “My homeland deserves my allegiance, and I am bound to do all that is in my power to protect it.”

“Admirable,” said the oldest. “And yet, you are here in Roma, not with your troops in Hungary.”

“The eastern borders of Hungary are far from secure,” said Ragoczy. “Those of us wishing to preserve our lands have need of the support of Papal troops.” He looked at the three priests. “And I had

an obligation to fulfill here in Roma, as you are most certainly aware.” He saw that he had surprised them again. “Atta Olivia Clemens was a blood relative, and I came to ensure her Will was upheld.”

“We have reviewed the case provided by the Magisterial Court,” said the tallest.

“Then you understand why I came,” said Ragoc
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y.

“When you arrived, you bore the title of Abbe as well as Conte,” said the shortest. His eyes narrowed. “Did you not?”

Ragoczy was prepared to answer this accusation. “In lands where the Ottomites are powerful, often the only way for the old nobility to maintain some authority is to become the head of a monastery. The Turks usually leave such places alone, and as an Abbe a man of my heritage may continue his duties to his homeland. I am not the only one who has made himself an Abbe—without final vows—for the preservation of the legacy of his blood. Had I young sons, that would be another matter, but as I am childless and will remain so, I have found a bastion in the monastery.”

“It is irregular,” declared the oldest. “But it is in service to God.” “And others have done it before him, and will do it after,” said the tallest. “Any man who has paid so high a price in his flesh for his faith cannot be faulted for using such means to preserve the honor of his blood.”

Ragoczy found this unexpected defense perversely amusing but maintained a somber demeanor. “I am grateful you understand.” “That does not resolve the matter of the accusation made against you,” said the shortest.

The oldest lifted his joined hands. “There is an injustice being done, that is beyond doubt. That must be addressed.” He glowered at Ragoczy. “You have enemies, Signore.”

“Most men do,” Ragoczy responded carefully.

“That you could be held accountable for such an outrage as has been claimed you committed is a most grave error. Someone seeks to use the Holy Office as a weapon for personal vengeance.” The tallest priest crossed himself. “I pray that we will be given the power to rectify this sin.”

Ragoczy remaiiled very still, listening intently to the priests and

hoping that they would not demand he reveal more in order to enable them to apprehend those they would hold responsible for false accusation. He kept his eyes lowered so that the priests would not decide he was challenging them.

“There is much we must do,” said the oldest. “Our tasks are laid before us.” He glanced significantly in Ragoczy’s direction.

The shortest addressed Ragoczy. “You may go. But do not leave Roma without permission. There are still questions that have not been answered that we must put to you.”

Ragoczy went down on one knee as a demonstration of acquiescence. “God give us to know right.”

The three priests crossed themselves to show agreement with Ragoczy’s sentiment, never aware that his intention was ironic. “You have been tested, Signore,” said the oldest. “Your test is not over.” He indicated the door. “We will send for you when we need to know more.”

The dismissal was beyond question; Ragoczy rose and left the study, his emotions in turmoil: he was elated that the Holy Office had apparently not yet examined the records of the Dominicans and Franciscans, but he was apprehensive that they clearly intended to do so; he was saddened that Leocadia—for his accuser had to be | Leocadia—could have spoken so viciously against him; more than that he was sickened at the thought of what Giorgianna had endured because of him. Most of all, he felt a light-headed relief that he had a
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short time to act in order to head off the worst of what the Holy j Office could do; he had to do as much as he could manage in the
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time remaining to ensure neither woman would suffer again on his account. As he buckled on his sword again and took his staff, he decided Leocadia was in the most immediate danger, so that when his grey was led out for him to mount, he headed toward the palazzo that had been hired by Martin, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte, where Ursellos now shared his lavish household with his sister and her husband; drawing up in the piazza before the palazzo, he knew better than to try to speak to Leocadia, but he hoped that Jose Bruno might talk to him.

There were sounds of excitement coming from the palazzo’s open

windows as Ragoczy approached it. The worst of the heat was over but the stone walls retained their oven-like warmth, dragging out the lassitude of the afternoon and delaying the activities of evening for most Romans—but not all; the squeal of eager, feminine voices rose above a rowdy choms of male singing; Ursellos was entertaining again, Ragoczy thought. He drew in his horse across the piazza and dismounted, giving an Angel to a youngster to hold his horse, and another to the child’s comrade to go ask Jose Bruno to come outside.

Clutching the coin in his hand, the boy ran to the palazzo and ducked into the alleyway that led back to the stables and coach-house behind. His companion, holding the grey’s reins in his fists, said, “You don’t worry. Lucio knows where to find the half-wit.”

At another time Ragoczy would have done his best to explain that Jose Bruno’s apparent dimness was caused by his eyes, not his wits; but today he was too preoccupied with the more immediate dangers which the Holy Office represented. “Then pray he hurries.”

The youngster fidgeted, as if this would urge on his friend. “It is too hot.”

“That it is,” Ragoczy said, and kept himself from pacing by idly counting the windows in the fronts of the houses and two other pal- azzos facing the piazza. It was a fairly successful diversion, and it kept the boy occupied as well, once he figured out what Ragoczy was doing and joined in the counting.

It was almost half an hour later when the young messenger returned, leading Jose Bruno by the hand. “Here he is. He was sleeping in a stall.” He laughed to show his opinion of those who did such things.

“Who is it?” Jose Bruno asked, squinting in a vain attempt to see more clearly.

“It is Ragoczy, Jose Bruno. From the Villa Vecchia.” He held out his hand to the young man, moving it toward Jose Bruno’s when he could not make it out. “I need to speak with you.” He made his tone as soothing as he could. “I am afraid the situation is precarious.”

“Because of Maurizio?” His manner grew nervous. “I told Leo- cadia I would say nothing about it.”

“No; not about Maurizio.” He took Jose Bruno by the elbow and

drew him away from the two curious boys. “I believe I should warn you, and your sister, that there may be trouble.”

“You think we have had no trouble?” Jose Bruno asked sarcastically.

Ragoczy knew there was no point in arguing. “I am sure you have, and I would like to do what I can to spare you more.” He had Jose Bruno’s attention now and made the most of it. “I think she—and you—are going to have more unless you prepare for it. You do not have much time.” He paused, looking across the piazza, but focusing on something far more distant than the front of the Calaveria y Va- camonte palazzo. “The Holy Office has been asking questions of you and your sister.”

“How do you know?” Jose Bruno’s voice rose a major third. “Who told you?”

“Indirectly the good Fathers themselves did,” said Ragoczy quietly. “There is something in Leocadia’s information that the priests are not satisfied with; they were not specific, but I did what I could to discern the cause of their disapprobation.” He spoke in an undervoice, leaning toward Jose Bruno. “They would not tell me what it is, and I was in no position to ask, but I surmised that their uncertainties may have something to do with my appearance.”

“Why should that concern Leocadia?” Jose Bruno whispered. “She can answer that better than I.” Ragoczy noticed Jose Bruno’s introspective frown. “I suspect they have conflicting accounts about some aspect of my person. That would explain why they required me to undress.” He paused to let Jose Bruno consider what he had said. “If Leocadia has not been entirely truthful with the good Fathers, she would do well to revise her testimony.”

“Why should she do that?” Jose Bruno was defensive now. “She won’t, and I can’t persuade her.” He began to chafe at his sleeve as his discomfort increased. “I know she ought to be grateful to you, that you helped her when no one else would. But in the end, she has got nothing for herself but suffering.”