Ink darkened the lines of the hand, his nails, and his cuticles that he held out to Saint-Germain. He was perhaps forty years old, with a noticeable limp due to an unflexing ankle; his clothes were of good quality, but worn. His collar had been turned at least once, and the edges of his lace cuffs were frayed. "Mercutius Christermann," he said, adding, "printer by trade, and seeking employment." He looked around the vestibule in Saint-Germain's Amsterdam house, still filled with covered furniture and unopened boxes. "I've been told that you're new to the city, and that you are the owner of Eclipse Press for Ancient Studies, or some such name."
"I have not been here in some while, but my press has done its work without me," said Saint-Germain, making a gesture of dismissal to Ruthger, who had admitted the stranger to the house. He contemplated this unexpected arrival, thinking back to what the supervisor of his press had told him since his arrival two days ago. "I will not remain here long, myself. I have business in Antwerp to which I must return. Willelme Klasse supervises the press here, as I suppose you know. Perhaps you should speak with him."
"Does that mean I am wasting my time, then?" Christermann asked. "Without an endorsement from you, it is unlikely that he would take me on."
"To do what? As I have not yet heard what you are seeking, I am in no position to recommend you to anyone," said Saint-Germain, nodding in the direction of the front parlor. "Tell me what you are seeking, and I may be of use to you-and you to me. If you do not mind the drapes, I will ask you to sit down."
Christermann considered the shrouded settees and shrugged. "If there are no insects ..."
"None that I am aware of, but I have only been here a few days, and not all my property has caught up with me, nor has my household been able to attend to opening the house completely." He looked about the room. "I have as much as is here because this house has long been owned by those of my blood, and I did not have to fully refurnish it."
"And there are more people arriving from Lisbon every day, seeking refuge from their ruined city," said Christermann.
"That there are," Saint-Germain agreed. "If the earthquake was only half as bad as the stories make it seem, it was dreadful."
"There will be books written about it," said Christermann, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger to show his perspicacity.
"And you intend to be part of it," said Saint-Germain.
"As you must, as well, or why are you refurbishing your house?"
"Hardly refurbishing, merely making comfortable. The chairs are old-fashioned, but sufficiently comfortable for our purposes-or they were." He chose a high-backed, shallow-seated chair, plucked the muslin drape off it, and inspected the chair beneath. "New upholstery would be wise," he said to himself.
Christermann laughed, and dropped down on a settee, not bothering to remove the drape. "Not when one has ink everywhere," he declared.
"No doubt," said Saint-Germain. He waited and watched his visitor closely.
"I'll be direct," said Christermann when his host made not further comment. "I should expect you know that I am seeking work."
"So I surmised," said Saint-Germain, an air of polite curiosity about him.
"I am from Amsterdam, and only recently have I returned here, and that return was not wholly my choosing. Still, it is good that I'm home." He paused a moment as if to recruit his strength, then went firmly on. "Until a year ago I was employed in Liege, and all was going well in my work, but then the publisher brought out a pair of books, one that was said to be from ancient texts, disputing certain biblical accounts and events, which was bad enough-the Church and the Protestants denounced it-but not content with that, he prepared a text on various contemporary theories that run counter to the tenets of Christian faith, regarding the nature of the heavens, and that raised such an uproar that all in his employ had to flee or answer to the courts." He coughed. "I, as supervising pressman, was one among a dozen who were facing a Process, and so, before that could begin, I departed with little more than the clothes on my back, and a dozen coins in my wallet."
"Have you a family?" Saint-Germain asked. "Are they safe?"
"I have a brother and two sisters; one of the sisters lives here in Amsterdam with a husband who will not receive me-that is because he fears the Holy Office more than my sister's wrath. My other sister is married to a merchant and living just at present in Hamburgh; that is where I may go, if I have to leave Amsterdam, as I fear I soon must if I find no employment, as I have no wish to be a beggar, not in these hard times. My brother is a strict observance Cistercian monk, and that means that he has left the world; he has taken a vow of silence, along with all the rest. My wife and children died during the summer fevers, three years ago, in Liege. In the space of six weeks, they all died." His genial features grew sad and he looked toward the curtained window. "I had a son and a daughter, and my wife was pregnant. That was a great loss, my family."
"For whom you still grieve," said Saint-Germain gently.
The printer hardly seemed to hear him. "You know how those plagues spread: the weavers took the fever first-that was a bad blow to Liege-and then the vendors of foods and goods, and from them to the city's tradesmen. At least the Lisbon earthquake was swift, not measured as the Plague is. My wife was stricken first in our family, becoming ill two days before I did. She insisted on nursing our children until she collapsed. Three days later she was dead. The older child did not outlive her by a week."
"Do you hold yourself accountable for their loss?" Saint-Germain asked, no trace of censure in his voice.
"That I do," he admitted. He lapsed into silence again. Finally he cleared his throat and went on, "I would like to think that you are willing to consider giving me work; I know how to run any press you may have. That is no idle boast, and I will prove it to your satisfaction if you like. I am told that you aren't much influenced by the Church, or its policies."
"Not when I can afford not to be," said Saint-Germain.
"Oh, a clever one," said Christermann. "That speaks well of you. Certainly you are wise to be cautious. Who knows? I may be a spy for the Church, come to find out if you are helping the causes of the Godless."
Saint-Germain smiled briefly. "Not with such hands as those. Whatever else you are, you are most certainly a printer. What you believe is for you to settle with your own conscience."
Christermann held up his hands. "I take your meaning, Grav; these hands are the work of years. You are right: I have been a printer for over two decades." He lowered his hands, continuing doggedly. "Whatever else I may be, as you said, you may be sure that I am seeking work, and with a publisher who is not in danger of being closed by order of the Bishop or the Spanish."
"So far, I remain unscathed," said Saint-Germain, regarding Christermann with increased speculation. "However I must tell you that my company is under scrutiny, and my situation may change abruptly. If such uncertainty is unacceptable to you, then I would advise you to look elsewhere."
"That scrutiny is extended to all makers of books wherever the Church has influence," said Christermann with a tremendous sigh.
"So I am informed," Saint-Germain remarked. "I may be more closely than some, because I am a foreigner."
"And a rich one, from what I have been told, as well as one who supports Guilds; you have the good opinion of many who print books," said Christermann with a bluntness that surprised Saint-German. Apparently Christermann noticed this for he went on, "If you will pardon me for my candor, I would be grateful for your graciousness, and were I in a position to do so, I would not have imposed upon you in this way. But as I've told you, I am in urgent need of work, or I will have to leave the Lowlands-leave or starve at menial employment-and I would rather not have to give up the little I have left. That, and I would prefer to remain in Amsterdam, if I am able to earn a living; Amsterdam is my home, and since I have only this place to hold me now that my family is dead ... The Guild will accept me, and I need not learn a new language at this point in my life."
"I can understand your desires," said Saint-Germain. "I know how compelling native earth can be."
Christermann uttered a single chuckle. "A nice turn of phrase, that. I must remember it."
"You are most kind," said Saint-Germain, reaching for a little brass bell to summon Ruthger. "If you will permit me to offer you some food and drink, we can discuss this further. I am inclined to hear you out."
The shine in Christermann's eyes made it clear that he was hungry, and although he was unused to receiving such flattering invitations from anyone-let alone a foreign nobleman-he was too famished to consider the impropriety of accepting. "I ... I hope that I'm not innicting-"
"It is hardly that if you and I are discussing what work you have done." He glanced toward the door as Ruthger tapped on it, then opened it just enough to provide room for himself.
"My master?" He stood very straight, his reserved manner making a favorable impression on Christermann, who often judged nobles by the hauteur of their servants.
"This printer is Mercutius Christermann, quite experienced, as you may see by his hands. If you will have the cook prepare some pork and turnips with onions, and bring cheese and beer, I would appreciate it." Saint-Germain paused. "Is there bread ready yet?" He saw Ruthger's nod. "Very good: bread and fresh butter to start, I think."
"Of course. And perhaps a little fried fish, to go with the bread?" Ruthger suggested.
"An excellent notion," Saint-Germain approved. "As you see, the man is hungry."
"Then I will tell the cooks to hasten," said Ruthger, then hurried away.
Christermann studied Saint-Germain. "You are being most hospitable. That's unusual."
"I am not responsible for others' lack of courtesy," said Saint-Germain in a tone that did not invite inquiry.
"That wasn't what I meant," said Christermann quickly, worried that he had over-stepped himself more than he had done already.
Saint-Germain held up his hand. "I am not offended: believe this."
Nodding emphatically, Christermann said, "I will." He stared around the room. "Your house has a broad front."
"And several steps, all of which I can afford," said Saint-Germain, his dark eyes showing a glint of amusement. "It was built to my ... great-uncle's specifications almost eighty years ago."
"Did the city tax on building width and the number of steps then, or has it happened since the house was built?" Christermann asked.
"I do not believe my great-uncle bothered himself with such matters," Saint-Germain replied, managing to sound completely disinterested.
"If such things do not concern you, then you must be wealthier than rumors say you are, and that is-"
"-a matter for gossip, to be revised and improved in the telling." Saint-Germain made a gesture of dismissal. "Suffice it to say, I can afford to pay another printer without putting myself at a disadvantage, and without asking you to work for apprentice's wages." He achieved a look of great indifference. "You have many years of printing to your credit, and that must command respect. If you will, I would like to know something of what you have done, and for whom, and the names of those with whom you have worked." For an instant he hesitated, then went on, "If you would also tell me how you made yourself bold enough to approach me personally, I would consider that a sign of good intent."
Christermann's face darkened, and he glanced toward the window in confusion. "If you would ... My situation is ... Matters are despera-That is, I don't ..." Finally he went silent.
Saint-Germain moved to a chair near the window, so that the shine of day was behind him, casting his face into shadow. "Suppose you start again?" he suggested gently. "I can see you are a printer, and I know from the condition of your clothing that you need money, but there are many reasons to account for that, and I would like to know the whole of it."
"I have told you the truth," said Christermann, his shoulders hunching in spite of himself.
"Some of it," Saint-Germain corrected cordially. "It is the rest that interests me-what you have omitted from your account."
"I have told you-" Christermann began, only to stop himself.
"You have told me as much as you believe you must; I am more interested in what you have left out," said Saint-Germain with easy patience. "Your family died three years ago, you said? And you were in Liege until last year? You were working for a printer of suspect books?"
"Yes. My brother-in-law," said Christermann as if confessing to a crime.
"He kept you on after his sister died?" Saint-Germain asked.
"He did, albeit grudgingly. He held me responsible for her death, and our children's, but I was the best printer that he had ever had working his press, the Guild supported me, and he kept me working for him as long as he was able. When he let me go, it was because he was in trouble."
"Because the Church became dissatisfied with the books he produced," said Saint-Germain.
"That is what happened." Christermann was becoming defensive.
"I am certain of it," said Saint-Germain. "I know Gilpin Purviance, at least by reputation; he is known to be reliable and intelligent. I was pleased to hear that he had got out of Liege, but sorry that he has had to go so far to be secure. Still, he is free, which many another printer is not."
For several minutes Christermann said nothing; then, "Gilpin Purviance is my brother-in-law, it is true." At last he looked at Saint-Germain, but could not make out his expression, for the light behind him obscured his features. "What more do you know?"
"I know you agreed to sign an admission of wrong-doing before you fled, and that in Liege there is a price on your life, as there is on Purviance's, since you did not, as it turns out, actually sign the admission. I know you were considered an audacious fellow for turning against your wife's brother, and that the Guildmaster was advised to sanction you, but did not. Officially the Spanish and the Church may pronounce the Anathema on you without any protest from the Guild, although they did not expel you. With the Holy Office seeking you, finding work must be extremely difficult." Saint-Germain let Christermann reflect on this before going on. "I did not recognize you at first, if that is what you think, but I knew enough of what happened in Liege to be able to deduce who you must be when you had told me about your work. Printing and book-making is a very small community, for all the leagues it covers, and little goes on in it that all the publishing world does not know of it."
Christermann sighed. "Then you will not engage me."
"Have I said so?" Saint-Germain rose as Ruthger returned with a well-laden tray in his hands. "First, eat. Then we must talk. But you must not withhold information, for that makes both of us vulnerable."
"The pork-and-turnips is cooking," Ruthger said as he put the tray down. "The dish will be ready shortly."
Christermann seized the wire cheese-slicer and set to work, sectioning off three irregular slices with a speed that demonstrated his hunger.
"I am pleased to hear it," said Saint-Germain, then added, "Will you send the steward on an errand for me?"
"Bogardt van Leun is just now setting up the wine-cellar," said Ruthger. "Would you want him to complete that task before-"
"I am sure the cook can supervise the servants," Saint-Germain replied. "I want information from the Printers' Guild."
"So!" Ruthger exclaimed. "I see why you want an Amsterdamer to go."
"It is hardly surprising, given how insular this city can be," said Saint-Germain, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes, and added, "The Guild has provided me only the most minimal information."
"What is van Leun to do there?"
"Inquire about the standing of this Mercutius Christermann," said Saint-Germain, his eyes snapping in the direction of the middle-aged man who was starting to devour a slab of new bread thickly buttered with a small wooden paddle, and a wedge of cheese.
"Is there anything you want to know beyond the usual information?" Ruthger inquired.
"No; unless there is something the Guild wishes to pass on to me, something that may have bearing on Christermann's standing in the Guild. Otherwise I know enough of his history to have a good notion of what dangers he may present." He motioned Ruthger away, adding, "Tell van Leun sooner is better than later."
"Certainly, my master," said Ruthger with a slight shift in expression that might have been a smile.
"You understand me too well, old friend," Saint-Germain murmured as Ruthger withdrew and closed the door. He stood still for a moment, then returned to the chair with its back to the window.
"This is very good," Christermann said as he wolfed down another thick slice of bread.
"I should trust so," said Saint-Germain, watching Christermann eat, aware that the man was now a little flushed.
When he had finished a second wedge of cheese and drank down half the pale, shining beer, Christermann wiped his mouth with the long strip of linen provided. "A foreign touch, this cloth; some of the French use them in Liege. Most of us use our cuffs." He studied the black smudges his hands left on the linen. "I apologize for that, but it can't be helped."
"It is the badge of your trade, and one I am inclined to honor," said Saint-Germain. "Now tell me: have you ever printed music books before, or are you limited to texts? You need not explain the difference to me; I am familiar with them. I want only to know your experience."
Christermann accepted this readily, answering as if reciting from memory. "I have done a music book only once, and it was a very difficult process, that I will say, through no fault of the music. It's amazing that the book ever was finished, what with the composer changing his mind every few days and demanding that whole lines of notes be reset. We altered more than twenty-six pages to his order, and even then he wasn't satisfied." He cut another slice of cheese, taking care to peel off the rind before biting energetically into it. Chewing, he said, "I know how the pages are set for music, but I prefer that I stay with words."
"There are always hazards," said Saint-Germain. "You are fortunate if setting new pages is the worst of them."
"Anathema, for instance? or prison?" Christermann looked away. "Hazards: you call them that?"
"Why, yes, as I would call a severe storm, or a bad winter, or a famine, or a plague a hazard," Saint-Germain said with hard-won tranquility as his long memories roiled.
"What of war and slaughter?" Christermann challenged. "For surely such are coming."
"I fear you are right," said Saint-Germain. "They are hazards, too, and the more unfortunate because many of them are avoidable."
Christermann laughed out loud, with a total disregard for proper social conduct. "You are a foreigner, and from what I have heard, an exile, and you can still say that?"
"I most of all," Saint-Germain responded quietly.
Giving a shrug, Christermann shifted on the settee and reached for the glass-sided tankard of beer. "Then you are a more reasonable man than I am." With that, he drank all that was left in three large gulps. "Most men in your position would not be so ... reasonable."
"I am somewhat more experienced than most, perhaps," said Saint-Germain with a deferential nod.
Christermann leaned back. "Will you employ me?"
"That is a very blunt question for a man in your position," said Saint-Germain at his most genial, refusing to be pressured.
"It is my position that makes me blunt," said Christermann, studying the contents of the tray as if trying to determine what he ought to do about the remaining food. Deciding, he took the last of the cheese and bit into it, pursing his lips as he chewed.
"Do not worry," said Saint-Germain. "You will not go hungry here."
Caught off-guard, Christermann managed a chagrined-but-muffled chuckle. "No doubt you have the right of it; you have been most generous so far." He swallowed hard and added, "Don't think I am unaware of the courtesy you are showing me."
"It is the least I can do for you," Saint-Germain said, noticing how cautious Christermann was under his air of bonhomie.
"Out of hospitality," said Christermann.
"At the least," Saint-Germain agreed.
The silence that settled between them was only superficially comfortable, and could not long be sustained. "I am willing to work, Grav, and I will be loyal," said Christermann.
"I have no doubt that you have excellent intentions," said Saint-Germain, not adding his own reservations as to what those intentions might be.
"Then why do you-" He stopped as Ruthger again came into the parlor, this time carrying another, heavier tray with a covered dish upon it, and a larger pitcher of beer.
"The rest of the meal," said Ruthger, setting this down and removing the first tray with a proficiency that seemed almost magical.
"Very good. And when you have a chance, bring a pot of China tea and a jug of fresh milk." Saint-Germain nodded toward Christermann. "I hope this is to your liking."
Christermann had reached for the deep spoon set on the tray and then pulled a knife from his wallet, using the latter to cut the pork. "Very tender," he approved. "And very moist. Pork so often dries in the cooking." As if to make a point, he jabbed the point of the knife into the largest of his slices and held it up, juices running down the blade and onto his fingers.
"Enjoy your meal," Saint-Germain said, then gestured Ruthger to come to his side. "While you are out, I have a second errand for you."
"Tell me what it is," said Ruthger, in Byzantine Greek.
"Call at the house by Holy Trinity Church. You know the one I mean," Saint-Germain said, still speaking the Amsterdam dialect. "Ask the man there if he will call here tomorrow."
Ruthger bowed slightly. "As you wish, my master," he said, still in the Constantinopolitan tongue.
"Thank you; let me know as soon as you have returned." He dismissed Ruthger, then looked back at Christermann. "When you are finished, we will conclude our business."
Christermann managed to grin as he chewed. "I am at your disposal, Grav."
"That is very good of you," said Saint-Germain, wondering if Christermann would be so sanguine if he were aware that the house where Ruthger would call after he spoke to the Guildmaster of the Printers, following van Leun's introduction, belonged to the most formidable advocate in all of Amsterdam-the house of Rudolph Eschen.
Text of a letter from Basilio Cuor in Amsterdam to Christofo Sen in Venice, written in secular Latin, carried by private courier, and delivered ten days after it was written.
To the highly esteemed and most puissant secretary of the Savii agli Ordini in la Serenissima Repubblica Veneziana, Christofo Sen, the greetings of your most devoted servant Basilio Cuor, from the dismal city of Amsterdam, from Het Bouw Tavern hard by Saint Stephen's Church.
Say what they will about the canals, this place is no more like Venezia than it is like the distant ports of Araby-perhaps less, for here it is cold, and the merchants are like clergymen in appearance and manner. Never would Tiberio Tedeschi be permitted to wear his gaudy silk robes here, and the good burghers are not the sort of men to ceremonially marry the North Sea as the Doge does the Adriatic. But it is a city built on trade, they have that much in common with Venezia, and at the canal-side taverns you may hear languages from across the world spoken. Last night I had a bottle of Alsatian wine with two sailors from Poland, and a white-haired devil from Denmark. Sailors are much like sailors the world over, I would guess. From China to the barbarians of the New World, sailors face the same perils for the same purpose, and that makes them more similar than dissimilar. They all told stories about the Lisbon earthquake, saying that more than ten thousand are dead from it, and each trying to best the last with tales of more horrors.
Franzicco di Santo-Germano is indeed here in Amsterdam. He has two trading companies I am certain of, and a publishing business called Eclipse Press. He calls many of his businesses Eclipse for his heraldic device. From what I have learned, he is prosperous, and although they call him Grav and not Conte, and Saint-Germain instead of Santo-Germano, he is clearly the same man, and he has the same manservant he kept with him in Venezia. I know di Santo-Germano has been to Bruges and Antwerp, and apparently is returning to Antwerp shortly.
I have been able to intercept five letters from Venezia sent to di Santo-Germano, three from his mistress. I am pleased to tell you that he knows nothing of her present plight, and with a little ingenuity, I should be able to continue my efforts for another month or so. At present, with di Santo-Germano so much a foreigner here, I am able to pass myself off as one of his household, at least to the satisfaction of the various couriers who come here, since they keep very regular hours, which makes my tasks much easier.
Nothing di Santo-Germano has done so far has made me believe he is doing anything contrary to Venezian interests. His most outrageous activity is book-making, and that is known to local authorities as well the Spaniards who serve here on behalf of the King of Spain, and the Catholic Church. There are rumors that his press may be seized, but so far, nothing of that sort has happened to him; however, one of his pressmen has been summoned to the local tribunal to answer some questions. I am going to drink with the soldiers from Spain tonight, and I will try to learn more when I do.
I hope your nephew's scheme to drive di Santo-Germano's business agent into ruin will succeed. Relying on gambling as a means of fortune, good or ill, is undertaking more risk than I would advise, and your nephew would not appear to have the resolve to keep to his intentions. I am not there to help you, and so far, your nephew has been unable to compromise Pier-Ariana Salier, as well as drive Emerenzio to the kind of desperation you require. Perhaps if La Salier could be proven a harlot, then Emerenzio would not have to resort to embezzlement to gain control of di Santo-Germano's fortune. A pity the Conte will have to lose his lady and his money, but what can an exile expect?
May the Carnival bring you joy and the deliverance of Easter fill you with the love of Christ, for the glory of our faith.
With my pledge to continue to inform you,
In singular dedication to you, the Savii agli Ordini, the Minor
Consiglio, the Maggior Consiglio, and the Repubblica
Veneziana,
Basilio Cuor
By his own hand in Amsterdam, the 26thday of March, 1531
