Communion Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online

himself, and would die without legitimate issue. The Cardinal could not banish his sense of injury at this, for when Spain passed from Hapsburg hands, he—the Cardinal, and the other Spanish Cardinals—would no longer be assured of royal support.
    At the end of the gallery was his smaller dining room, suited for groups of up to twelve. It was as elegant as any chamber in the palazzo, with a tall marble fireplace at the far end, the mantel supported by life-sized statues of Saints Hippolytus of Porto and Fru- tuosos of Tarragona, two significant bishops, one Italian, one Spanish. Today it was chilly enough to require a blazing log to make the place comfortable, making it appear that the Saints were presiding over the flames in Hell. The Spanish theme was continued throughout the room, with paintings by Spanish artists, including a recently completed portrait of Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte by Velasquez. The table had been made in Barcelona ten years ago when the Cardinal had first come to Roma as an ambitious bishop of twenty-five. It was rubbed with oil-and-beeswax twice a month and was nearly as glossy as the red silk soutane the Cardinal wore daily. The chairs, more Spanish than French, were high-backed and straight, upholstered in specially woven tapestries showing various martyrdoms of Spanish Saints.
    Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte sat down at the head of the table and finished his wine and pastry. He did not want to ask Rothofen to delay the negotiations with Archbishop Walmund any longer, but unless Leocadia relented, he would have to do so. He clapped loudly, knowing a footman was never far away.
    The youngster who answered the summons had just begun shaving a few months ago, and he was still awed by the Cardinal. He bowed deeply. “What am I to have the honor of doing for you, Eminenza?”
    “Which one are you?” the Cardinal inquired.
    “Emani, Eminenza. I have been in your service more than a year.” He did not dare to look his employer in the face, but stood still, his eyes on a spot a stride in front of his feet.
    Gratified, Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte smiled. “I will want supper served here within the hour. While I wait you may bring me another glass of wine. The service will be for two, 'but lay three places.”
    “Of course,” said the footman, bowing and withdrawing hastily, only to return a short while later with a goblet of wine and two other footmen to set the table.
    By the time the Cardinal’s carriage returned, the dining room was in readiness; silverware, settings of crockery with the Calaveria y Vacamonte arms painted on the faces, and three crystal goblets were ready, snowy napery waiting. As the steward escorted Rothofen to the dining room, the first of the waiters arrived bearing the first course of a lavish meal.
    Ahrent Julius Rothofen aspired to dandyism but had neither the figure nor the style for it: he was angular and graceless, with a bit too much jaw and nose to be handsome, and a bit too little flair to be amusing. Tonight he had dressed in a long, dark-turquoise justau- corps with forty-eight covered buttons down the front. His doubletiered ruffles fell over large, big-jointed hands. He carried a walking stick as tall as his shoulder and minced along on high-heeled shoes with elaborate, enormous silver-and-tortoiseshell buckles. He had given his cloak to the servant at the door, or the Cardinal would have seen a dark-green garment lined in fawn-colored satin. Rothofen should have been elegant, but he failed to carry off the air that would make his clothes seem appropriate; instead he gave the impression of a man in borrowed finery. At the sight of his host he doffed his wide-brimmed hat and made a leg. “How very magnanimous of you, Eminenza, to bring me to dine with you. I confess I am overwhelmed by your unexpected courtesy,” he enthused in his German-flavored Italian.
    Cardinal Calaveria y Vacamonte achieved a frosty smile, and answered in Spanish, “You and I have