The Scarlet Contessa (26 page)

Two months passed. By the first of May I felt housebound and restless; I had not left the palazzo for weeks, as I spent my days not only caring for Caterina, but also constantly checking on little Bianca and giving my lady reports on her baby’s progress, whether Caterina wanted them or not. She listened to them with a distant expression, and had little to say in response.

Girolamo, on the other hand, was a far more attentive parent, and every night before supper, he came into the nursery and played with Bianca, who adored him. I was often there at the same time, and, watching Girolamo make funny faces for his giggling daughter, came to see him in a different light.

On an early May afternoon, after working very hard to care for my two charges, I received permission to go for a stroll out in the strong sunshine. The weather was delightful as I made my way out into the east garden. Within minutes, I arrived at the little glade where Caterina first experienced ecstasy with the dead Frenchman. At the sight of the scribe, Luca, I stopped in my tracks.

He sat on the bench, bent halfway forward from the waist, his breathing labored, his arms wound around himself, as if he were struggling to keep something dangerous from bursting out. At the sound of my steps, he looked up immediately, his eyes wild with horror.

“Luca,” I gasped, and went to his side. “Luca, what’s wrong? What has happened?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Leave me, please,” he said in a very low voice. “I must get control of myself. There is still a chance the count might need me.” A grimace of what seemed to be physical pain twisted his lips and brow; he bent farther forward and tightened his grip on his arms.

I moved to stand beside him. “No,” I answered gently, and lightly rested my palm on his shoulder. “I cannot leave you like this. Not until I’m sure you’ll be all right.”

“I can’t,” he said desperately. “I
can’t
. . .”

He covered his eyes with his hands. Several deep, hitching gasps made his shoulders shake; the movement was accompanied by short moans of pain.

I sank down onto the seat beside him. “Oh, poor Luca,” I murmured. “You’re crying.”

He turned his face toward me; there were no tears in his eyes, but his expression revealed grief. His words came in a fevered rush.

“I did my best to warn him,” he whispered. “But Lorenzo has always scoffed at the need for protection. No one would dare lay a hand on him in Florence, he said. He would take care, would keep an eye on Archbishop Salviati . . .”

“No!”
I cried out. “No, Lorenzo cannot be dead!” Along with sorrow came an all-consuming burst of rage against Count Girolamo; I wanted to kill him. I began to weep, but Luca caught my elbow.

“Lorenzo is only wounded,” he said gently. “He will recover.”

“Thank God!” I said.

“But his younger brother, Giuliano . . .” Luca began. He could not continue, but instead produced more harsh, staccato sounds—sobbing, I realized, without tears. If his eyes were red-rimmed, the count would grow suspicious. Luca’s life now depended on his ability to hide his grief.

The scribe gathered himself and haltingly told the tale:

Girolamo and Sixtus had left the actual assassination in the hands of one Archbishop Salviati, who recruited Francesco de’ Pazzi, the Medici’s most powerful banking rival, to help with the attack. They agreed that both Lorenzo and his brother, Giuliano, had to die, since the Florentines would rally around the survivor should only one be killed. And the archbishop, bereft of all decency, arranged for the attack to take place in Florence’s great cathedral, in the middle of mass, when both brothers were distracted.

Giuliano and Lorenzo were in separate areas of the sanctuary, but each was unwittingly surrounded by different assassins. When the priest raised the chalice to bless the wine, the killers struck. Young Giuliano was unarmed and standing next to Archbishop Salviati and Pazzi at that instant; both drew knives and slashed the young Medici mercilessly, then left him to die in a pool of his own blood.

His older brother fared better. Perhaps Luca’s repeated warnings had kept Lorenzo alert, for the instant his would-be killer struck at him from behind, Lorenzo drew his own sword and whirled on the attacker. A short battle ensued, but Lorenzo’s friends soon surrounded him and pushed him into the safety of the sacristy—away from the assassins and the sight of his dying brother.

“Count Girolamo and Sixtus underestimated the loyalty of the Florentines,” Luca said grimly. “Salviati and Pazzi had both convinced them that the assassination would cause the citizens to rise up against the Medici and rally behind the Pazzi family, who are Sixtus’s puppets. Quite the opposite happened. Within hours of the attack, the people seized Salviati and Pazzi and hung them from the upper windows of the government palace.

“Count Girolamo received the news not an hour ago. He is furious, and trying to figure out how to break the news to the pope. This will not end well. There will be war between Rome and Florence.”

“Poor Giuliano,” I murmured, as tears filled my eyes. But at least his suffering was over. His older brother’s grief and guilt would haunt him the rest of his days.

“How can you bear it,” I demanded of Luca, “knowing that you are working for the man who murdered Giuliano? A man who cannot wait to kill Lorenzo? How can you not want revenge?”

Luca leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and shook his head sadly. “Don’t you see, such hatred only leads to more bloodshed. And the vendetta continues. . . .”

“But they killed Giuliano because they were greedy and wanted Imola!”

“It goes far deeper than that,” Luca explained. “Count Girolamo and the Holy Father want to kill Lorenzo because they believe Lorenzo poisoned Sixtus’s favorite son, Pietro Riario. Pietro was the most powerful, shrewdest young cardinal in Rome, clearly destined to become pope. Sixtus sent him to talk to Lorenzo about the acquisition of Imola. Within a day of returning home from the unsuccessful negotiation in Florence, however, Pietro died suddenly. Sixtus and Girolamo are convinced that Lorenzo is to blame. No amount of reason will convince them otherwise.”

“Did Lorenzo kill him?” I whispered.

Luca looked at me as though I had struck him. “Of course not! We obey a power holier than the Church.”

I turned my face away, unable to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks. “I’m a fraud,” I said. “I wasn’t worthy of Matteo’s company, or of yours. I see what is to come in the triumph cards, but I was never able to make contact with the angel. I only want to find the man who killed my Matteo. I’m a wicked person.”

He put an arm around my shoulder. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “Just let go of it, Dea, and trust the angel.”

“But I
can’t
let it go!” I struggled halfheartedly to pull free of him. “I can’t! If you had seen how Matteo suffered at the end . . .”

“I did.” Luca’s tone was firm and calm.

I turned on him angrily. “Then how can you forget it? How can you tell me that a person as saintly as Matteo should have suffered so? Should have died so young, with his killer never being punished for the crime?”

I still do not remember clearly what happened next. I believe I tried to push Luca away, but the outcome was unexpected. Luca caught my hands, and I pulled them free, only to discover that they quite naturally moved to his face, and pulled it toward mine. Once I pressed my lips to his, I did not want to stop. I found the strong muscles between his shoulder blades, and dug my fingers into them as I pressed my breast to his.

His lips brushed softly over my skin: my mouth, my cheeks, my eyes and brow. I did the same to him; his skin was warm and firm, indescribably male. He murmured swiftly, breathlessly at me.

“From the moment I saw you—that first, horrible moment when I brought Matteo to you—I knew even then that you were the one. He told me to take care of you, Dea. I made a solemn vow to him. When I saw you again, in Rome, I knew it was destiny. . . .

“You are so beautiful. You have my heart.”

Astonishing, to hear those words. Even more astonishing was the sound of my own voice, declaring the truth I had not admitted even to myself.

“I love you, Luca.”

I lingered in his arms for several minutes. I might have remained there for hours, had it not been for the shout from Caterina’s balcony. I was needed.

I touched my fingers to his cheek and reluctantly rose. Grief was still subtly writ upon his features, but beneath it was an incandescent glow, one I did not doubt emanated from my own face.

Without another word, I turned and hurried back to my demanding mistress.

Chapter Twenty

When I returned to the contessa’s chamber, Caterina informed me that she was leaving with Girolamo that afternoon to drill papal troops in the Castel Sant’Angelo. I was surprised at the count’s acquiescence to her request to accompany him, though not surprised that Caterina had asked. Now that Girolamo was spending more time at home with his new daughter, making a new affair for the contessa too dangerous, Caterina was physically restless. Not long after the baby’s birth, she began begging for Girolamo to take her to see the fortress and his soldiers.

My father the duke took me with him when he drilled his troops,
she had told him,
and he also took me to watch when he trained my older stepbrothers to ride, to use cannon, to drill with pikes and swords. He was a talented soldier, and that talent has passed to me.

Girolamo was skeptical, but Caterina was so persistent that he yielded, thinking to prove to her that no woman could possibly grasp such a manly art. She was so excited by the prospect that, as I helped her strap on her leather hilt and sheath the Toledo halberd Borgia had given her, she did not notice my red-rimmed eyes or unsettled demeanor. I said nothing of Giuliano; she would hear of it soon enough, from someone else.

Girolamo took her to the Castel Sant’Angelo that afternoon—perhaps to distract himself from his fury over Lorenzo’s survival—and let her watch while he shouted commands from a rampart down to some three hundred men in the walled-in yard below. They drilled first with steel-covered pikes, each taller by half than the man who wielded it; with sustained effort, Girolamo managed to get the troops to form three equal rows, and to march around the circumference of the yard.

Then, no doubt still in an ill mood and thinking to humiliate his wife, the captain of the papal army turned to her and, gesturing at the men below, said, “Well, Madonna? They are now yours. Let us see what you know of soldiering.”

Caterina gave him a small smile, then called to the troops in a voice as strong and authoritative as Galeazzo’s.
I never doubted,
she said to me that night as she recounted the tale,
that they would obey me.
With a few barked commands, she persuaded the troops to merge into one long row and face outward in a circle, ready to intercept any invaders. Then she made them split again into three rows, then two, and line up in front of the nearest entrance, spears at the ready.

Girolamo was astonished into speechlessness. When he recovered, he dismissed the troops and took her down to the training yard himself. His aim was to embarrass her. To that end, he had her draw her sword and execute certain maneuvers with it, with the hopes that she would be entirely ignorant of the terms he used. Alas for him, Caterina knew them all, nor could Girolamo succeed in physically tiring her.

By the time they returned home from the Castel Sant’Angelo, Girolamo’s attitude toward his wife had dramatically shifted. He was jealous of her, true, but he was also impressed, and when Caterina confessed that she wished to use her talent only to help further the aim of her husband and his future sons, he was won. It was then that he shared the news that Lorenzo’s brother had been killed in Florence by “unknown assassins.” Caterina expressed mild sadness—her father had always been Lorenzo’s staunch ally—and Girolamo, the liar, echoed her regret.

From that day forward, the count began to share something of his military world with his wife, and allowed her occasionally to accompany him when he reviewed the troops. Caterina even designed special drills, for which purpose she convinced Girolamo to provide her with a map of the fortress’s interior. In time, she became a favorite with the troops, and her husband grew so proud of her support that he presented her with a steel cuirass, its breastplate curved to accommodate her womanly form, and the combined emblems of the Riario and Sforza—the oak and the basilisk—engraved over the heart.

As the seasons changed, the baby Bianca flourished; amazingly enough, her eyes changed from blue to brown and came to resemble Girolamo’s, a fact that brought Caterina and me no small amount of relief. Borgia, of course, no longer came to the palazzo, but Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere remained a frequent visitor, and often conferred privately with Caterina when Girolamo was gone on business.

By then, Luca and I had ceased relying on chance encounters and met regularly at dusk, after the heat broke, at the stone bench where Caterina had surrendered herself to Gerard.

Luca was not the same after Giuliano’s murder; guilt had carved a permanent line between his brows, and left a lingering sadness in his eyes that romance could not dispel. Each day when we first greeted each other in private, he always began by sharing the latest news from Florence. And there was always news. Pope Sixtus, enraged by the spontaneous execution of the conspirator Archbishop Salviati, excommunicated Lorenzo and placed Florence under interdict, thereby denying her the ability to do business with all other Christian city-states—until her citizens agreed to turn over Lorenzo. To their credit, the Florentines rebelled against the pope and rallied behind Lorenzo. Furious, Sixtus convinced the King of Naples to declare war on Florence.

After relaying the day’s somber news, Luca nonetheless took me in his arms, and we kissed each other until half an hour had passed, by which time I was obliged to return to the contessa’s service. I had forgotten what it was like to be tormented by unfulfilled sexual desire; I had not lain awake, simmering, since I had shared a bed with Matteo, not knowing then that he was my brother.

As the weather warmed, so did our passion, and we grew dissatisfied with mere kisses. When Luca one day reached for my breast, I let him free it from the restraint of the bodice, and kiss it; and when, one day, I grew bold enough to reach between his legs and for the first time touch a male organ, he did not recoil. Nor did he pull away on the steamy August day that I finally pushed away the cotton lawn covering it and took it in my hand, marveling at the sheer strangeness of it, so hard and unyielding, yet covered in skin that was velvety soft to the touch.

At his urging, I began to move my hand up and down over the shaft, catching the velvety skin and bringing it up over the pink-brown toadstool tip. This made him groan with pleasure; encouraged, I increased the pace, though in retrospect, my technique was certainly clumsy.

“Stop,” he gasped. “I can’t bear it any longer. I must have you, Dea. Please . . .”

By then, reason had deserted me. “Only tell me what to do,” I said. I lifted my skirts, as I had seen Caterina do too often, and waited, pulsing with lust, yet also abruptly nervous.

“You know,” he whispered, and at my silence, paused to glance up at my frightened expression.

“My God,” he said finally. “You
don’t
know, do you?” A look of understanding crossed his features. “Of course. He was your brother; the marriage was never consummated. You’re a virgin. . . .”

“I don’t care,” I answered defiantly.

“Well, I
do,
” he countered, and reached forward to gently lower my skirts. “You deserve better than this for your first time.”

“But I want to please you.” Stubbornly, I reached for him again.

He caught my hand tenderly, and whispered in my ear. “All you need to do to please me,” he confessed, “is what you were just doing.
If
you’re sure you still want to.”

I took him in my hand again, and a moment later was startled when a pale, warm substance—thick as the white of an egg, but opaque—spurted out from the tip, filling my hand and dripping onto my skirt. Immediately, the shaft shrank, and the pinkish tip disappeared back into dangling, wrinkled skin.

Amazed, I drew back to examine the odd-smelling contents of my palm while Luca sat gasping, eyes closed and mouth open. Clearly, he was spent, though I was even more eager to lose my virginity.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “So sorry . . .” His eyes flicked open; he reached for a kerchief tucked into his belt and handed it to me as he glanced at my skirt. “You’ll want to wash that spot out soon, or it’ll stain.”

I went over to the nearby fountain and washed my hands in the scallop-shaped stone basin. I dipped his handkerchief into the water; while I was dabbing at the dark viscous spot on my skirt—awkwardly situated near my lap—Luca came over and kissed me.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Now I am satisfied, but leaving you wanting.”

I smiled faintly. In those days, I had no notion of how to satisfy myself; I had always been wanting. Today would be no different from all other days. But I was very pleased to have made Luca happy, and I told him so.

He grinned, but almost immediately grew somber. “There’s something I’ve wanted to speak to you about. Something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”

His tone was so earnest that I stopped my effort to clean the stain and looked at him. His dark complexion was thoroughly flushed and streaked with sweat; he dropped his gaze, unable to meet mine, and stared down at the fabric still gathered in my hand.

He was nervous, and the realization unsettled me.

“I have not spoken to the count of this,” he began, “and there is no guarantee that Her Illustriousness would allow it, either. But I would like— That is, Dea would you consider . . . if we can get the approval, that is . . .” He paused helplessly as anxiety swallowed his words.

Out of pity, I stepped into the gap. “Of course I will marry you, Luca,” I said.

I returned in a thorough daze to the contessa’s apartments, where Caterina was being dressed for supper with the count and Cardinal della Rovere. The day had been uncomfortably hot, and Her Illustrious Highness was irritated by the prospect of wearing a gown and heavy sleeves over her lawn chemise. She stood in front of the full-length mirror near her closet while Teodora laced heavy, bell-shaped sleeves to the shoulder of her silk overdress.

As I entered, she scowled piercingly at me; as I curtsied, she demanded, pointing: “You didn’t have that stain on your gown when you left. What happened?”

I looked down at the incriminating damp area on the blue silk. To my horror, I saw a spot I had missed, where Luca’s seed had dried into a crusting white pearl.

Caterina’s brow furrowed more deeply as she followed my incriminating gaze to the pearl, at which point she erupted in laughter.

“Why, Dea!” she exclaimed, when she caught her breath. “You’ve been to see a gentleman, haven’t you?”

I could not look at her or the giggling Teodora, but directed my blushing face toward the marble floor and mumbled, “Please, Madonna, may I speak to you alone?”

“Of course,” she answered, jolly and grinning as she nodded to Teodora, who bowed and hurried into the corridor, shutting the door behind her.

Before I could utter a sound, Caterina said happily, “I hope, for your sake, that he is an excellent lover, though it seems his aim is less than true. Honestly, Dea, I was beginning to worry about you. It has been far too long since you have been with a man.”

“Your Illustrious Highness,” I began, as she lifted her eyebrows at my uncharacteristically formal tone, “I was not going to trouble you with a request until tomorrow, but since you have broached the subject of . . . gentlemen . . . there is one in particular who has asked for my hand. I cannot give it, of course, without your consent and the count’s.”

Her cheer faded at once. “Who is the man?”

“One of the count’s secretaries. His name is Luca da Siena.”

“And his family?”

“He is an orphan like me, Madonna.” My knees felt suddenly unsteady. “One who was fostered and given an excellent education. Count Girolamo hired him because of his talent and discretion. He is a kind gentleman—noble of heart, if not blood.”

Caterina’s expression grew opaque; she folded her arms tightly over her chest—the left arm covered in heavy gold brocade, the other in voluminous, gauzy white cotton, gathered at the wrist. She turned from me and her mirror, walked toward the open French doors leading to the balcony, and stared out past the garden at the darkening Roman skyline.

When she spoke again, her back was to me. “I assume,” she said slowly, “that you care for this Luca da Siena.”

“I do.” My answer was barely louder than a whisper.

She wheeled about, her expression unguarded, her arms still folded tightly. “What is it like?”

I shrugged, perplexed. “What do you mean, Madonna?”

“To love someone,” she said. “I can tell from your face that you love this man, and you loved your husband, too. What is it like?”

“It is . . . wonderful,” I replied. “It gives me a reason to wake up every morning. When he is happy, I am happy; when he is sad, I want only to cheer him. It is the best thing in life; nothing else comes close to it.” A wave of sorrow washed over me at the memory of Matteo. “And there is nothing more horrible in all the world than losing the one you love. So I suppose it can also be the worst thing.”

“Then it is dangerous,” Caterina said softly.

“Yes.” I imagined losing Luca, too, and closed my eyes at the pain. “Very dangerous. Once you have lost someone, loving again takes courage.”

She tilted her head, thoughtful. “How do you know whether you love someone?”

“You will know when it happens, Madonna.”

She nodded slowly, her expression faintly wistful; I watched it harden as she spoke again, all earnestness replaced by stern defensiveness.

“There are certain conditions,” she said. “You must still sleep in my bed at night—although you may retire much later, if you wish. And I must know where you are at all times. This Luca da Siena has no rights to you except those I choose to grant him. I will be lenient with you both, but I will not lessen your duties. And God forbid you get pregnant and have whiny little children who will also demand your time.”

“Thank you, Madonna, thank you,” I babbled. “You are so generous, so kind . . .”

Her lip twisted scornfully. “Stop sniveling. You have yet to gain the count’s permission.”

At sunset the following day, I went for my walk in the garden and found Luca in our customary place, sitting on the stone bench near the fountain. He was slumped forward, head bowed, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly as if in urgent prayer. He looked up at the sound of my footfall, and the instant I saw his mournful face, I let go a moan of disappointment.