The Lion and the Rose (11 page)

The two lay sisters looked up at me when I called to them over the low stone wall around the churchyard. “Yes,
signorina
?”

I sketched a curtsy as the younger one came closer, still clutching her spade in one cold-chapped hand. “May I ask that you offer a prayer for my good father, Suora?” I asked respectfully. “I have just learned of his death, God rest his soul.”

“Of course.” The young nun looked hopeful, and I took a coin out of my purse and pressed it into her work-callused hand.

“One more thing.” I lowered my voice. “Will you lay this on the altar in my father’s memory?” And I passed her my father’s worn packet of ciphered recipes.

“What is it?”

“Just recipes. My father’s.” I didn’t need them anymore; I had them all long memorized. “Give them to your convent cook, after you take them off the altar,” I advised. “If she can unpick the cipher—there’s a note about how to read it in the back—then I promise you, the whole convent will eat better than queens. Even the lay sisters!”

“That would be something,” the young lay sister muttered, eyeing the packet with a bit more interest. Perhaps she
would
take it down to the convent kitchens. Or maybe she’d just toss the whole bundle on the fire. Either way, I’d send my father’s recipes out into the world and not really care where they ended up. I made my own recipes now, and they were better than my father’s.

“I’ll pray for your father,” the lay sister promised, pocketing my coin and the packet of paper. “At Vespers, after the Duke of Gandia passes by—I suppose I won’t get a good view when he goes by, but there’s always hoping.” Wistful. “They say he has a pearl in his helmet the size of an egg!”

“That’s also the size of his brain,” I told her, and took myself back to my kitchens. Enough pensive maundering for one afternoon. Juan Borgia would be gone soon, and Madonna Giulia would come back shivering from the afternoon’s ceremony even though she’d been wrapped in a lynx-lined cloak. She’d want a hot posset, and a good warming plate of stew.

“
What do you mean the stew’s not ready?
” I shouted at Bartolomeo back in the kitchens. No day off for him to see the parade, since he was still on restriction for the ferocious quarrel he’d picked with me. Not the quarrel about the saffron
frittelle
, but yet another quarrel, last week, over whether to cook a calf’s sweetbreads with a caul. Of course you cooked sweetbreads with a caul; absurd even to think otherwise, but Bartolomeo had some ridiculous idea about searing them on the spit with slabs of sausage. He had not been nearly as penitent as he should have been, even when I docked his free afternoons yet again in punishment, and now—

“I changed the menu,” he said. “The stew will hold for tomorrow. Tonight we’re to serve salted ox tongue, a fish pie flavored with oranges, nutmeg, and dates—what are you scowling for,
signorina
?” He took the time to rap out a series of orders to the undercooks, letting me see how they hopped to his words like frogs, and then looked down at me with guileless innocence. “You left me in charge of the kitchens. How was I to know you didn’t want me changing the menu?”

“If you think for one moment I will allow an apprentice to change a menu without consultation—”

Yes, definitely enough pensive maundering for one day. My father was dead, and whether I could manage to grieve for him or not, I’d say prayers for his soul and more prayers for the fact that I was now likely safe—safe from discovery, safe from everything. But prayers could wait. For now, I had an apprentice to murder.

Leonello

B
loodshed made beautiful—I could think of no other words for it as I watched Cesare Borgia bring his sword down in one massive hewing sweep and lop a bull’s head half off its body. I had never cared for bullfighting, nor for cockfights, dogfights, or the baiting of bears, but the Pope’s son made this hideous dance of death into a thing of marvelous grace.

He hewed the bull’s head off in two more strokes. The beast continued to stumble toward him for an instant , as though determined to catch the young Cardinal even as its head tumbled onto the stones. Then the massive body crashed in a spray of bright blood, and Cesare put a boot to the great horned head with its glazing eyes and raised his sword for applause. His eyes glittered, his impassive mask cracked into a grin, and as applause roared around the
piazza
, he swept a cocky bow. Burly servants in the Borgia mulberry and yellow rushed out to drag the fallen bull away on hooks, and Cesare Borgia tossed his bloodied sword aside in a careless rattle and vaulted in one lithe motion up to the temporary dais where his sister and the other ladies sat in a flutter of veils and velvets. I had a place there too, though no one would notice my small dark figure amid all the radiance that was the Pope’s concubine, daughter, and daughter-in-law.

“Another bull!” Cardinal Borgia called, and Lucrezia struck him on the arm with her fan.

“You’ll be gored, Cesare. Two bulls aren’t enough for you?”

“Nothing is enough for your brother,” Sancha purred, arching her throat.

“At least you make it quick for the poor bulls,” Giulia said, and the ladies all made room as Cesare flung himself down in a chair among them, calling for wine. Christmas and all its festivities had passed and the year turned; the sky was steel-gray above and breath puffed white on the air, but Cesare Borgia had declared himself in need of celebration and announced a bullfight. Bullfights were not such a common thing in Rome—“More Spanish oddities!”—but that did not stop the city’s idlers from packing into the Piazza San Pietro to watch.

“Why not the Colosseum instead?” I’d suggested. “We could kill prisoners instead of bulls; hark back to Imperial Rome instead of Spain. Far more civilized!” But the ancient Colosseum was a wreck of crumbling stone, and so the Piazza San Pietro was fitted with temporary wooden seats and a chute and transformed into an arena.

“A bullfight in honor of Our son-in-law,” the Pope had said expansively, clapping the new-returned Lord Sforza on the shoulder. “To celebrate his return to Us from his soldiers.”

“If he thinks we missed him,” Cesare said indifferently, not bothering to whisper, and the Count of Pesaro swelled in outrage before his little wife whispered quick assurances in his ear. Lucrezia had smiled at her brother behind her husband’s back, though, and even now Lord Sforza sat swamped in all the feminine flurry, bad-tempered and flushed and overlooked. Lucrezia’s husband was guest of honor, but no one had eyes for anyone but Cesare, who had stripped out of his doublet after the very first fight and taken on the next bull himself.

“A splendid fight,” I said as the young Cardinal tossed down a cup of wine. “To kill a bull with a sword and on foot—tricky.” The flamboyant
rejonear
had killed the first bull from the safety of horseback, pricking it to death with the long lance, but that was too dull and safe for Cesare, who had thrown himself against the huge snorting beasts on foot, and with nothing but a sword. “And only three strokes to sever the neck. I congratulate you.”

“To sever a man’s neck is near as hard.” The January day was cold, but Cesare seemed oblivious, lounging back in his half-unlaced shirt with his dark auburn hair tumbled about the faint dent of a tonsure, and his breath puffing white on the air. “I think because men struggle harder than bulls when it comes to dying.”

“And women?” I asked. “How do they struggle?”

He grinned. “Just like they struggle beneath you in a bed.”

The bloody stones were swept below for the next match. Giulia sat wrapped in a sable cloak, her bright hair shining above the dark fur like a gold coin, while Lucrezia had tucked a dutiful hand through her husband’s arm but leaned close to Sancha on her other side, whispering. Sancha was ignoring Joffre and casting her eyes at Cesare, but her gaze flickered briefly to me, and I made sure to blow her a kiss. She hissed at me and flounced her attention in the other direction, slapping Joffre’s hand away as he tried to catch her eyes.

Cesare noted her glance at me. “Don’t tell me my brother’s wife has granted you her favors, dwarf?”

Favors? Not really. Sancha of Aragon had greedily run her hands over my body for a little while, savoring its oddities, and had allowed me a little exploration of her luscious one—and then she’d laughed her nasty laugh and shoved me away, just as I’d thought she might. She then got quite peevish when I didn’t curse or groan or grovel for her favors, but merely straightened my doublet, swept her an elaborate bow, and strolled away whistling. What an array of gutter curses to fall from the lips of a king’s daughter! “The Princess of Squillace enjoys variety,” I said blandly.

“She does,” Cesare agreed, unoffended. He did not seem to care one whit that he had shared Sancha with half of Rome including both of his own brothers, but then, he didn’t seem to care one whit about any woman at all except perhaps his sister. Sancha was pouting her lips at him, but he dismissed her from his notice as though she’d been a lapdog wiggling for his attention.

“Your Eminence appears cheerful,” I observed as he stretched in his chair like a lithe-bodied cat. Usually his moods rose no further than a studied neutrality. “What might the cause be? Have the French captured our good Duke of Gandia?”

“That would be cause for a ball, not a bullfight,” Cesare said. “I’ve had word, however, that he has been wounded at Soriano. A very slight wound, but to the face.”

“Tragic when a young man must lose his beauty,” I intoned.

Cesare’s eyes gleamed. “Tragic.”

“And after Bracciano . . .” The Duke of Gandia had enjoyed a few easy victories late in the year, but the fortress of Bracciano had proved a harder nut for his forces. Cesare Borgia’s control over his expressions was normally perfect, but I’d seen him turn abruptly to the wall to hide his dancing eyes from the Holy Father when news came that the defenders at Bracciano had returned Juan’s offer of peace by way of a mule with a placard about its neck jeering
I am the ambassador of the Duke of Gandia
, and a very rude letter indeed stuffed under its tail. I wished I’d been there to see young Juan’s face.

“Nevertheless,” I continued, propping my boots on the same table with Cesare’s, “I hear the Duke is to take his forces to march against the French in Ostia next.”

Cesare’s smile disappeared. “He is.”

“I hear Your Eminence begged the Holy Father for that command instead.”

“A caesar does not beg,” Cesare Borgia said, “nor do I.”

“I hear otherwise.” The fight between His Holiness and His Holiness’s most unholy of sons had gone on behind closed doors, but both men had emerged with white furious faces. Perhaps that was why the Holy Father had declined to join us for this afternoon’s bullfights.

“It’s a slight against me,” the Count of Pesaro had said tightly at the Pope’s absence.

“Really, husband,” Lucrezia had said in a tart voice. “Not everything is aimed at you. Slights
or
honors.”

“I’m glad you’re not taking the army to Ostia.” Sancha had aimed her hot whisper into Cesare’s ear. “I’d rather you were in my bed.”

“Oh Holy Virgin,” Giulia groaned to me privately. “Listen to them all!”

“I try not to.”

A roar from the crowd around the improvised ranks of stands, and I looked up to see that another bull had been released into the
piazza
. The creature tossed its great horns, snorting and raking its hooves, and I saw Lucrezia cast a sidelong glance at her husband. “Do you want to face this one, my lord?” she said, wide-eyed. “Bulls are no match for the men in my family. Why do you think we have one as our emblem?”

I wondered if anyone else thought it odd that Cesare Borgia should slaughter bulls with such gusto when his own father was both a Borgia bull and (in Giulia’s fond little blasphemy) a papal bull . . .

“I am a Sforza,” the Count of Pesaro said stiffly. “A serpent is our emblem.”

“Then we’ll find you a serpent to fight.” Cesare flicked his wine cup aside, rising. “A little grass snake, perhaps. That shouldn’t offer too much of a challenge for you.”

Lord Sforza reddened, opening his mouth and then shutting it again. His eyes flicked at the bull, now raking savagely at the stones with huge hooves, and he sank a little deeper into his chair.

“I don’t mind taking on another,” Cesare shrugged. “A good kill clears the head, and my head needs clearing.”

“You should stick to killing whores, Your Eminence,” I said in a low, clear voice. “Less dangerous than bulls, surely.”

Lord Sforza was hissing at his wife and Sancha was eavesdropping on them without shame; Giulia was trying her futile best to smooth things over, and the crowds were roaring at the sight of their Pope’s son on his feet again. Only Cesare had heard my words, and he looked down at me without speaking.

I don’t know why I said it. Cesare Borgia and I had been dancing about my private obsession for years—and in latter months, when I’d believed I must be wrong about him, I’d nearly dropped it altogether. Why challenge him now?

Perhaps because Sancha told me another woman had died, another victim after all this time, and I would rather end this game of cat and mouse than wait for even one more death to provide me clues. Perhaps because the young Cardinal seemed in an expansive mood for once, expansive enough to be loose-lipped. Perhaps because I was tired of the game, and after so many hours of wondering I just wanted to
know
who had killed my friend Anna.

Or perhaps because I simply preferred the baiting of murderers to the baiting of bulls.

But for whatever reason the words were out. Cesare Borgia looked down at me, and I gazed levelly back at him.

“Are you hinting at something, little lion man?” His voice was mild.

“Why, yes. I am.” If today was to be the day, so be it. I’d lay my cards on the table, and I’d either get the truth or get a knife in my throat. One or the other, I felt certain—because I did not think Cesare Borgia would lie to me.

“Out with it, dwarf,” he said to me. “Whatever it is you’re thinking. I don’t like hints.”