Suicide Kings (20 page)

“Are you fond of Bernardo Tornabuoni?”

“I am discovering some fondness for him,” she replied with an edge to her voice.

“It would be well for you to find fondness for some young man, given your age. Although I would have preferred something more prestigious, the Tornabuoni family is well respected and longtime friends. A match between you and their son would be desirable for the family.”

Oh dear Lord, things hadn’t progressed that far! “Father, I’ve only met him twice. I’m hardly prepared to marry him on that basis! Besides, what good would it do for the family? If I marry, I’ll become a Tornabuoni, and the Savrano line would die out.” Unless her father remarried, she realized a moment later. “You’re already thinking of remarrying, aren’t you?” The disgust in her voice shocked even herself.

Her father visibly blanched, a rare moment where she’d managed to catch him off guard and wound him. “I have no immediate plans, of course. Naturally, I would wait an appropriate mourning period for your mother. But it is true, I would need to remarry one day, for the very reason you mention.”

Diana drew back, horrified, even if it were irrational, at the thought. “Did you not care for my mother at all?”

“You have no right to question the affection I had for your mother. Why must you always make it so difficult for me to speak with you? I try to talk with you openly about the facts of the world in which we live, yet you do nothing but search for something to be hysterical about.”

“Why should I not have such questions?” Diana demanded. “What evidence do I have for your affection for her? When did I ever see you hold her hand, or grace her with a loving glance? And here she is barely in her grave with you ready to plan your next wedding.”

Her father’s face reddened, his jaw set. “You forget your place, Diana.”

“As you have forgotten your place as husband to my mother! You have been too stuck in your books even to notice that she died of a summer disease during February. The circumstance of her death might not interest you very much, but I for one am going to do everything to avenge her memory.”

Her father’s face went ashen. “I’m well aware of your little investigation. In fact I wished to speak with you about that as well. I’ve tolerated it so long as I figured it might be a harmless outpouring of grief. Now though, I’ve been hearing whispers you may be putting yourself at very real risk for harm. Some people do not like others digging in their business.”

Well, here it came at last. “I don’t care what you say. I’m not going to stop until I discover who murdered my mother.”

“Murder!” her father sputtered, putting a hand over his eyes. “You impudent fool. It’s true your mother did not die of malaria, but neither did she succumb to murder. She took her own life! There, I wished to shield you from the knowledge, but you push everything past natural limits.”

Diana’s heart coated with ice and she gasped for some moments like a fish on the dock. Even her eyes felt like frost had coated them. At last she managed to whisper, “You lie.”

Her father turned round and plucked a parchment from a drawer in his desk. He extended this to Diana with a trembling hand. “Take it. The proof you need.”

Diana stared at it for a minute, paralyzed. Then, like she were watching but not controlling it, her hand reached out and took the parchment. She didn’t read it, not yet. Without another word, not trusting what she might say, she turned and walked for the door.”

“Diana!” he called from behind her, then again, more softly, “Diana?”

She passed through the threshold and closed the door behind her.

****

“My heart is heavy with the deepest sadness I have ever known. All that I have come to believe has been revealed as a lie. Those mountebanks on the Council who seduce the lost and unfortunate have taken me for all that I had. In giving sway to the influence of those scoundrels I have put to risk all I hold dear. At what cost will come my actions? I have exhausted every means for extricating myself from the Council, and each effort has come to naught.

“The fault, ultimately, is mine alone. I have put my family, my daughter, at great risk. And poor Pietro, I have introduced him to such horrors he did not deserve, as if he has not seen enough already in his poor wretched life. The grief is more than I can bear. I have no more energy, no more plans, no more hope for the future. I am done in. There is nothing left to be done but for to lay back and invite death to take me. Perhaps then, with the sacrifice of my own life, shall those I hold dear be able to continue their own with safety. Perhaps that is the sacrifice God wants from me. That is it, then. The price for this endeavor will be my own life. So be it.”

Written in her mother’s hand, the letters looped and flowed across the single page. On the last few letters were smudged; ink ran under the weight of Diana’s tear. She folded the document once she had finished. She could not draw a breath out of fear such a simple action would shatter her heart.

Siobhan’s breath was warm on her neck. The Irish girl perched over her shoulder, where she had read the note with her. Silence hung between. Diana couldn’t so much as look at her, so deep was her grief, mixed now with the deepest sense of shame. Her poor mother, life taken by her own hand!

“It’s not exactly a suicide letter,” Siobhan whispered gently a moment later.

Diana wiped her arm across her face. Had she heard Siobhan correctly? “What?”

“I understand how it reads as such, but it’s not entirely clear, is it? Obviously, your mother is despondent, hopeless even. And she may believe she has to sacrifice herself, presumably for your benefit, but look at how she words her letter. It’s passive. She’s talking about no longer resisting death, not bringing it on herself.”

“Even I know that’s grasping for false hope!” Diana sputtered, rising to her feet and walking away from the bed.

“Listen to me for a moment, won’t you?” Siobhan insisted. “I’m not saying suicide isn’t a hypothesis we must regrettably entertain henceforth. But I don’t think it’s yet a certitude. She doesn’t speak about killing herself, not directly. She does not apologize for her imminent actions. She speaks about her sacrifice being something God may want, when of course suicide is prohibited by God under any condition. The note is neither addressed nor signed. I think this might be a chronicle, not a goodbye epistle. Probably a good many women facing moments of hopelessness might write something like this, at least those who can afford paper. I think she may be talking about martyrdom, not suicide.”

“Martyrdom,” Diana repeated with a sniffle. “Do you really think so?” She did not want to allow herself to be caught up in nostrums. However, nothing could be so dismal as the thought of her mother’s suicide.

“I think we must explore all possibilities. Just as we should not cling to belief in the best of possible outcomes, nor should we be quick to grasp hold of the worst. Even if it were true that your mother took her own life, it would not change the fact that she would have been driven to it by some outside source—presumably the Council. We know an assassin had been hired to kill her. And if Isabella Savrano took her own life, she certainly did not take those of Maria Innocentia or the innkeeper at the Romancier.”

“Or Niccolo’s man, Crispino,” Diana finished the thought. “On a practical level, it changes nothing.” Emotionally, it mattered much. She hated the thought of her mother lost forever to Hell having ended her life with a cardinal sin. Nonetheless, the Irish girl gave her some hope. “Thank you, Siobhan. You’re a good friend.” She gave Siobhan a tight hug, a gesture violating conventions of status unthinkable mere days ago.

“We’re going to root out the villains who did this to your mother,” Siobhan promised. “I won’t let you down.”

A knock at the door, Agathi once again.

“Oh dear God, Agathi,” Diana moaned, wiping away a few last tears, “what is it now?”

Agathi looked chagrinned. “There is a gentleman here to see you. Signore Machiavelli. He awaits you in the aventurine sitting room.”

“Thank you, Agathi. Tell him I’ll be right down.” Diana looked at Siobhan without saying anything.

“It’s about time that man called on you since you nearly were killed,” Siobhan observed with displeasure.

Diana agreed. She’d felt profoundly disappointed he hadn’t seen to her wellbeing following the death of Crispino. Then again, she’d been gone from home most of the day, and hadn’t given him much of a chance. Friar Savonarola may have kept him at bay in the morning. She supposed she should at least hear him out.

Siobhan must have seen something in her face. “You’re actually going to speak with him then?”

“Don’t you think I should?”

“I suppose I won’t be able to talk you out of it, will I? Don’t tell me, despite catching the eye of a gentleman such as Bernardo Tornabuoni, you still have fancy for a common clerk? One who’s been little help and more than a little hindrance I might add.”

Diana rubbed her eyes. “I’m still not sure how I feel about either one of them. And I have no idea how Niccolo feels about me. I might be no more than an investigation to him. I don’t claim to be immune to the flights of fancy common to members of our sex. At least I try to be practical about them.”

“Which is why you’re still a spinster,” Siobhan quipped. “Go on, see what he wants.”

This meeting couldn’t possibly be worse than that with her father, Diana reasoned. She found Niccolo downstairs, composed as ever he was, apparently immune to the boredom of waiting. His eyes casually scanned his environment, casting over the architectural features of the room to the ever-present murals painted above.

“Signore Machiavelli,” Diana said.

He stood when she entered, and sat only when she took a chair across from him. “I am pleased to see you well, Lady Savrano.”

“Are you?” Diana responded with a twinge of irritation. “I would have thought you might have called on me yesterday.”

Niccolo regarded her without revealing any emotion. “In fact, I tried to do just that. Unfortunately, in the morning you had business with Friar Savonarola, and much of the rest of the day you spent at the convent at Saint Cecilia. Perhaps I might have waited until nightfall and then thrown pebbles at your window.”

Diana let the quip pass. “I’m very sorry about Crispino.”

Niccolo nodded. “I am as well. He was a good man. I expect there must have been another culprit besides the one you dispatched? Perhaps you could describe him?”

“It wouldn’t be difficult to spot him as he lacked a nose. I don’t suppose you know of such a character in Firenze.” After all, Niccolo had known how to find Pietro.

Niccolo frowned. “I am not aware of anyone with such a description. Likely an associate of Giuseppe Mancini from Milano. You are fortunate to have escaped with your life.”

“Fortune smiles on me,” Diana said without smiling.

“So she does.” A moment passed in silence. “I understand you’re courting Bernardo Tornabuoni?”

Diana tapped her fingers against her knee. “I think he would like to court me, but I haven’t yet made up my mind. Of course I already know your opinion of him.”

“Yes, I suppose there is not much more for me to say.” Niccolo looked away. A moment later he added, “Although I don’t mind saying I’m surprised you’d find much interest in such a fop.”

Diana couldn’t help but smile. If Niccolo weren’t personally interested in the matter he could have simply kept his mouth shut. For once, Diana found herself on comfortable ground with him. “Oh, I don’t know, Niccolo. I’ll grant you there is some truth to your accusations regarding his background. I’ve found him to have his charming and gentlemanly qualities as well.”

Niccolo glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I’d warn you about charming men such as he. Some men learn the skill of honeyed language they use to seduce young women. There is a particular skill at play in making the recipient feel special. Naturally, in making every woman feel special, in truth none are special at all.”

“You needn’t worry over me, Niccolo. If I were so susceptible to sugared words I would have surrendered my virtue long ago.” She giggled a bit, but Niccolo only gave her a disapproving glance. “Besides, what’s got you so concerned with my honor?”

“I only wish to speak as one who would call you a friend.”

“Surely I am gladdened you would call me a friend, but I must wonder if your interest in my virtue extends beyond that of friendship.”

Niccolo drew back. “Whatever could you mean?”

“It occurred to me that your comments might be borne from a jealous instinct?” She raised her eyebrows at him.

His eyes traveled over her body in a quick, instinctive gesture he probably barely noticed himself. So many men made what they thought were furtive glances, which in truth were nakedly obvious to the observant woman. “I don’t deny your features are agreeable and you possess a certain wit that makes for stimulating company. I don’t need to point out to you though, that you are a principal in a sensitive investigation of primary importance to the Republic, and I am commissioned in charge of that investigation. I don’t see that this should preclude cordial affiliation but anything more would certainly be inappropriate.”

A flare of impatience fired down her spine. Why did some men insist on placing rules and restrictions around their passions? “Our emotions cannot be lit then snuffed out like a candle. Can you say you have no affection for me?”

“As you have interest in Bernardo Tornabuoni?”

Dangerous territory now. Balancing honesty with pragmatics. “I do have some affection for Bernardo Tornabuoni. But I discover I have some fondness for you as well. If you have no affection for me in return, then it is misplaced and my course becomes clearer.” Strictly speaking, this was not entirely true. Her evaluation of Bernardo Tornabuoni did not hinge entirely upon Niccolo Machiavelli. She might ultimately conclude Bernardo didn’t interest her solely on his own merits. She didn’t feel the need to have another man to fall back on to make such deliberations. Still, putting pressure on Niccolo in this event had its advantages.

Niccolo squirmed in his seat, could only meet her eyes for a few seconds at a time. “I won’t deny my thoughts stray to your welfare more than they ought. So too, I can’t deny I would rest easier were you not seen in the company of Bernardo Tornabuoni. It is unrealistic for me to have such expectations. Any affection for you would, by necessity, carry the stigma of impropriety so long as this investigation is underway.” He stood and smoothed out his doublet. His jaw set, stern. “I am satisfied to find you well. I think it best I should go.”