Suicide Kings (18 page)

Their connection cut, Diana’s hands no longer held in that crushing grip. Diana’s balance did not return and, no longer rooted to the anchoress’ room by Francesca’s grip, she slipped off to one side into a row of low bushes beside the convent walls. Splitting pains coursed through her skull and her vision swam as though a most horrible intoxication overtook her. She struggled to remain upright, a part of her brain thinking the safest thing would be simply to lie down until the feeling passed. Gravity decided the matter for her in the end, and the very ground seemed to rush up toward her. In the last moment she realized that her angle was bad, she was too close to the edge of the convent. Nothing to be done for it now though, not in her state. When her head collided with the impenetrable stone of the convent walls, it brought the blessed relief of darkness and oblivion.

****

“Don’t try to sit up too quickly, or you’ll faint again.” The words pierced through a haze of confusion and pain. Diana’s eyes opened, but her vision blurred. Over her bent a form of black, long arms reaching toward her like those of the phantom who had thrown Sister Maria Innocentia to her death. She tried to sit up but, as promised by the voice, waves of nausea and lightheadedness quickly made such efforts perilous. Diana eased back down where she lay, having confidence that God would not have led her to her doom through the anchoress’ visions. Through even her corrupted sight she could tell she was in a cramped and dark room, walls of stone, few windows. She lay on a simple straw mattress. Probably the convent then, with the black figure another of the nuns.

“I’m fine,” Diana murmured, more from embarrassment than from any genuine sense of well-being.

“Nonsense,” her savior insisted, the voice female and older, authoritative. A few blinks later and Diana could make out enough detail to see it was Sister Ophelia, the nun who’d shown her Sister Maria Innocentia’s room earlier. “Here is a cup of wine. It will make you feel better.”

“Since when did wine help either dizziness or nausea?” Diana griped, though she still sipped from the proffered cup. The wine within was thin and bitter, barely better than the stuff they tried to grow in Spain. She felt her face pull into a horrified expression. “Ugh, you call this wine?”

Laughter from the fuzzy image of Ophelia. “Well, you seem to be coming around well enough.”

“How is Francesca…Sister Francesca?” Diana pushed herself back up into a sitting position. Her symptoms were slowly abating.

“Sister Francesca is resting, but is otherwise fine. Her visions at times can be quite powerful. Tell me, did you share in them?”

Diana rubbed her head. “Thankfully no, merely standing next to her sent me into apoplexy. If that is what the contemplative life offers, I can achieve much the same effect with good wine and still enjoy the company of men.” Grumpy and sore, she did not even care if she shocked the older nun.

Ophelia, far from taking offense, chuckled at her comments. “It suits some and less so others. I take it that you are less than enamored with religion?”

Diana raised an eyebrow, sipped at her cup of wine, each time hoping that the contents would miraculously improve in taste. “I have no quarrel with God; it is his representatives on Earth who manage to irk me.” She paused and looked up. “Please forget I said that.”

“I’m not an instrument of the inquisition, Lady Diana. Within reason, you may speak your mind.”

Gradually feeling more herself, Diana sat fully upright, no longer needing to support herself on one arm. “I don’t think there’s much else to say about it.” She shrugged.

“And yet you sought out audience with our own Sister Francesca, who has nothing to her name but her close relationship with Christ. Tell me, did she manage to give you the succor that you sought?”

Diana shook her head. “Not much more than gibberish. That is the secret to prophesies, isn’t it? Be sure that they’re vague enough they can be creatively made to fit any eventual outcome.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ophelia responded with a tolerant smirk. “I’ve never been blessed with the gift of foresight. You must have believed in her to come seek her out.”

Diana felt foolish at the implication she had come to have her future read. “I thought only that she might have known something about my mother’s death. I thought perhaps someone might have told her something that influenced her prophesies.”

Ophelia frowned, looking skeptical. “Why would you think that?”

“She basically told me, last time I came here, that I would regret investigating my mother’s death. Today I met with Savonarola and he told me much the same thing.”

“Did he?”

Some of Diana’s wits began to return to her. She was prattling on without much thought to someone she knew little enough about. She should keep her mouth closed, say less and listen more. So she only nodded in response and changed the topic. “Can you tell me if the figures Sister Maria Innocentia drew in her cell still remain?”

“They were drawn in chalk, dear, and as you might imagine, we were not terribly eager for them to linger. We indulged her visions in life, but in death her cell must be prepared for a new novitiate.”

Too bad, Diana thought. She would have liked a fresh look at them. The reversal of heaven into a demonic maw…those drawings were not merely the random musings of a disturbed mind, although Maria Innocentia had certainly been troubled. Something began to come together in Diana’s intellect. Maria Innocentia, former assassin by admission, surely had not come by happenstance on the secrets of her mother’s murder. Diana began to suspect the poor nun had been more intimately involved from the start. The drawings…heaven as a secret cover for a very real Hell ruled by a tyrant God, that image seemed consistent with the beliefs of the Sacred Council of Apostles as Savonarola described them to her. If he told her the truth—and of course that could hardly be taken for granted—might Maria Innocentia herself have been involved with the Council? Such a revelation cast troubling light on her own disclosures to Diana that night on the dome. Had she truly cast light on a sinister scheme or was she too, only part in a larger machination?

“Oh dear,” Diana said at last, snapping out of her thoughts. “Do you know what hour it is?”

“I’m afraid it’s near dark, dear,” Ophelia responded.

“I must be going!” Diana stood, wobbled a bit at first, but decided she was on as sure a footing as could be hoped. She set down her near finished cup of poor wine.

“Are you sure, dear?” Ophelia pressed. “You should not unduly strain yourself after such a spell. I could send a messenger to your family if you like, have them send a carriage for you.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Diana insisted. “I’m feeling infinitely better. Thank you for your time, and I am sorry to have put you out.” Before Ophelia could attempt to stop her, Diana whisked herself out of the room, wrapping her coat tightly around her. She saw herself out, directing herself as best she could through the dark and senseless passageways of the convent.

Outside the cold hit her like a cruel stone wall, yet it served also to restore her senses to their fullest capacity. The sun was low on the horizon, feebly resisting the onslaught of night. Before beginning the long walk home, she peeked in to Francesca’s little stone room. Little sunlight made its way in through the small windows and Diana could barely see. A form huddled motionless on the simple cot, wrapped tight in a blanket.

“Francesca?” Diana whispered, but the form didn’t move. Sleeping, Diana decided, and didn’t want to wake the older girl. With a sense of regret, she turned and walked away.

****

Sleep came harder and harder each night, Diana’s thoughts ruminating over each new encounter, puzzling over each new bit of information. She knew she needed to sleep, and tried to distract herself, but to no avail. Growing frustration over her insomnia only made things worse.

So she tossed and turned and tossed some more. Even the moon seemed to go away, leaving her isolated in her sleepless misery. Yet it meant she was wide awake to hear as a pebble struck the glass of her window.

Diana sat bolt upright. Could it be someone from the Sacred Council of Apostles come to do her harm? Immediately, Diana recognized that as an irrational thought. No assassin threw pebbles at the windows of their targets.

She dashed to the window. Then only did she realize that the pebble could very well have been an assassin’s plot, for she must have made a striking target in her white nightgown standing in front of the window. She half expected to hear the shot of a harquebus at any moment. All she saw though was a cloaked figure standing in the street outside her family palazzo. The figure glanced furtively from side to side, no doubt keeping an eye out for the family guard. Apparently satisfied he was unwatched, the figure waved up at her window.

Could it be Pietro? That would be awfully daring to show up at her palazzo once again, knowing that Niccolo must be keeping a watch on her. Then again, breaking into the palazzo and leaving a note on her pillow revealed he was nothing if not daring. She opened the window and recoiled from the blast of cold that struck her. She could feel flakes of snow against her skin. So it was still coming down. She peered down at the figure below, too far away for her to clearly recognize immediately.

“Who are you?” she hissed, trying to whisper so she wouldn’t wake the household, yet be heard by the figure.

The figure drew back the hood of his cape. “It is I, Bernardo Tornabuoni!” the young man proclaimed a little too loudly, as if it were the most natural thing he should appear outside her window in the middle of the night.

Her heart skipped a beat upon recognizing his face. She must look ghastly. “What are you doing here?” she hissed back at him, hoping he might catch the hint to keep his voice down.

“I’ve come to see you, of course,” he replied, still too loudly. His tone teased along the frigid air, “Can’t you come out and play?”

She felt her cheeks burn, glad the distance would prevent him from noticing. “It’s the middle of the night. If my father finds you here, he’ll run you through.”

“Then you should come down before he finds me!” Even from the distance she could see his smile, wide and bright. Damn him, it was like finding a small naïve dog on the threshold. She turned away, thinking. “Don’t force me to serenade you!” he called out.

This kind of thing was not an unheard of gesture. At another time, she might have been deeply flattered by the effort. Bernardo clearly underestimated the likelihood of her father cutting him down in the street. Still, despite all she’d become involved in, she couldn’t deny a certain attraction toward Bernardo, at least from their first meeting. Fine, she’d meet with him. Perhaps the distraction would do her some good.

“All right,” she called, motioning with her hand for silence. “If you’ll be quiet, I’ll come down. Give me a few moments.”

Closing the window, she looked around for something appropriate to wear. She wouldn’t wake Siobhan to help her. That would take too long anyway. She found a rather simple red dress she could put on without assistance, then her boots and overcoat. Glancing in the mirror she found her hair in disarray, and did her best to put it in some kind of order. All in all, she looked precisely like someone who just leapt out of bed. Hopefully Bernardo wouldn’t be expecting too much.

Diana thought about her pistol, hid under the pillow. She decided against taking it. How could she explain it should he notice? Besides, in his care she should be safe enough.

Satisfied things were as good as they could get on such terribly short notice, she hurried downstairs, being as quiet as possible. The household was dark, only a few candles illuminating the halls. The palazzo never entirely slept. Always, two or three guards remained awake, patrolling for intruders even in the quietest of times. She knew their habits though, and avoided them with ease.

Outside she shivered, but steeled herself and hurried through the dark until she found Bernardo. “You’re mad, you know!” Diana swatted him on the arm.

“I wanted to see you,” he explained, grin wide.

“Couldn’t you see me during the day when it would be more proper?”

“Actually I did stop by in the afternoon, but apparently you were out gallivanting. Didn’t you get my message?”

She closed her eyes. Upon return from the convent, she’d avoided most everyone, getting to bed before anyone noticed her and asked questions. “No, I missed it. My fault. I’ve kept to myself a bit more than usual lately.”

“Yes, about that, I think it’s time you had a chance to unwind and have some fun.”

“What, now?” she laughed, incredulous.

“Of course, now,” he insisted, never losing his smile. “I know a tavern that stays open nearly until dawn. It’s frequented by artists, revolutionaries, infidels and anti-papists. I thought it might be just your sort of place.”

She cocked her head at him. “Do you think so?”

“Come see for yourself.” He extended a hand to her.

With a little glow alight inside her, she took it.

Mere moments later she found herself inside a small, warm tavern alive with the sounds of music and the smells of food, wine, and warm bodies. Altogether too many people were crammed into the small space, most of them far below her standing or that of Bernardo. Not that any of them might have noticed, the way she’d had to throw herself together so quickly. Women and men both frequented the tavern and they associated together freely in a manner that would not have been easily permitted in higher society. Laughter, flirtation, close physical proximity, and alcohol were the orders of the evening.

Seated at a small table by a window, she and Bernardo had to lean in to hear one another. “My sort of place, eh?” Diana smirked. “Does this inform me of what you must think of my character?”

“What?” He looked innocent. “This place is fun, exciting, unconventional.” He motioned for a male attendant who was busy rushing from one table to another fetching food and drinks. “What would you like, Diana?”

“Wine, of course. Whichever is their best. Perhaps a pot of stew with it.”

Bernardo repeated her requests and added some of his own that she could not hear over the din. In one corner of the room, a small group with a young female singer pounded out a folk song called “Ragazza stupida” to the delight of the crowd. Several young women danced on tables, shoes off, dresses pulled up to reveal their calves. Their male companions, each of them wiry young rakes, got up with them, grinding their bodies together to the music. One table gave way under a young couple, sending them spilling to the hilarity of the crowd.