The Scarlet Contessa (7 page)

I wept a good half an hour. When I was done, my eyes, nose, and mouth were streaming, the poor feather crushed. Gasping for breath, I pushed myself up to sitting, and felt something small and metal brush against my breastbone, beneath my nightgown.

Matteo’s key.

Use it in case of emergency.

I drew my sleeve across my eyes and nose, and stared across the room at Matteo’s writing desk and the secret panel next to it, hidden in the dark wooden wainscoting. Weak and trembling after the paroxysm of tears, I crawled on my hands and knees to Matteo’s desk, and pulled myself up into his chair to light the lamp. The oil was low, and the flame feeble; I leaned down and had to run my fingertips over the wall to find the tiny black keyhole.

I slipped the leather thong over my hand, and put the little key into the lock.

The door to the compartment popped open with a faint click. Behind the wood panel, a large stone brick was missing from the wall; in the gap sat a thick stack of papers the size of a library manuscript. I drew them out carefully, set them upon my husband’s desk, and pulled the lamp closer.

On the very top was a tiny black silk pouch, tied with a red ribbon, and beneath that, a letter on fresh paper, folded into thirds, sealed with wax, and addressed
For my Beloved.
At the sight, I braced myself for the emotional upheaval to come as I opened the little black pouch. I thought it contained jewelry—a keepsake, perhaps, by which I could remember him, but it contained only a coarse grayish-brown powder.

I turned to the letter, expecting to learn, at long last, why my husband had rejected my amorous advances.

I did not expect to be frightened.

It was not a heartfelt farewell letter but a diagram, in Matteo’s hand, of a circle with the cardinal directions marked—oddly, with east at the top of the circle instead of north, and west at the bottom. At each direction, he had put a five-pointed star, with arrows carefully indicating how it should be drawn, and beneath each star, a word in what I suspected was Hebrew; underneath these were written phonetic translations in the vernacular, but no meaning was given.

Beneath this was a diagram of a second circle, again with the cardinal directions, this time accompanied by hexagrams and more barbarous words.

It was magic, the same magic I had seen him work at night when I pretended to be sleeping in our bed, and I remembered snatches of our conversation the night I had first told him that I saw portents in the clouds and sky and stars.

Bona would say this was from the Devil,
I had said, and he had answered swiftly:
Bona would be wrong.

Beneath both circles were sets of instructions in Milanese describing the rites that accompanied each. I could not focus my shattered mind long enough to make sense of them, nor could I keep the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck from lifting when I set down Matteo’s diagram to examine the next page upon the stack.

It was a piece of yellowed vellum, brittle with age, many times folded and in danger of falling apart. Gingerly, I unfolded it upon the desk. The ink was rust brown, faded, the handwriting ancient, unfamiliar; Bona had permitted me no Greek, though I recognized it readily enough, and understood most of the Latin translation written in a later hand beneath it.

It was an invocation—of what, I could not fathom in my grief-addled state. I set it delicately aside; beneath it rested an unbound manuscript of text, consisting of several dozens of pages in Latin. The paper and the author’s hand were modern; the title page read
De Mysteriis Aegyptiorium, Of the Egyptian Mysteries.

Last in the stack of writing was a document written in Matteo’s careful, even script. The letters of the Latin alphabet were written across the page, in order, and beneath each letter was written a different, random letter, number, or symbol. The letter
a
for example, was represented by the number 9, the letter
b
by an
x
, and
c
by an
l
. At the very top of the document was written
strike out every fourth.
It was, I realized, a key—one Matteo must have used when encrypting secret correspondence.

I propped an elbow on the desk and put my fingertips to my brow. “Why do you want me to have this?” I asked aloud.

The impulse to cast it all into the dying fire overtook me. Magic had been no more able to protect wicked men from killing Matteo than had God. But another thought damped my anger: the memory of the gilded triumph card displaying the Hanged Man.
Surrender to evil forces with the intent of sacrifice.

I pressed the heels of my palms to my burning eyes and tried to make sense of it all. Matteo had clearly had a sense of his impending death before he left, else he would not have given me the key.

He had sacrificed himself to me in marriage out of innocent love. Had he again sacrificed himself to protect me? Had he left all this behind to warn me?

Had I not been furious with God, I would have burned it all. Instead I stared down at the meaningless tapestry of numerals and letters on the page and heard Lorenzo the Magnificent speaking.

It was I, in fact, who recommended Matteo to the duke for employment.

As if in answer, I heard Matteo in my memory.

I was rescued in my youth by a wealthy patron. . . .

Perhaps later we could go together to Florence.

Bury me in San Marco,
the monastery in Florence that had educated him.

Read them in secret. And tell Lorenzo: Romulus and the Wolf mean to destroy you.

I sat very still, for perhaps an hour, then stoked the fire and stirred it until the flames leapt high and the room grew warm. I opened the shutters and discovered my husband’s saddlebag, leaning against the wall beneath a window. I undid the straps and emptied it onto the bed. It held another quill, a vial of ink, a blotter, two pairs of leggings and two wool undershirts, a brass mug, comb, and a small book, bound in leather. Half its pages were covered in the same unfathomable cipher—numbers and letters mixed with an occasional star or other symbol—I had found on the papers hidden in the compartment. I examined the little book for some time, but could make no sense of it.

When the blackness outside eased to gray, I went back upstairs to the duchess’s chamber, where Bona lay sleeping. I tiptoed up onto the platform, slid the bed curtains aside, and set a hand gently upon her shoulder. Even so, she wakened with a start.

“I must take Matteo to Florence,” I said.

Chapter Five

The duke refused my request to take Matteo to Florence to be buried in the churchyard of San Marco. For one thing, Galeazzo said, the winter was far too treacherous for a woman to attempt five days’ hard ride, even if it be southward—no matter that a day of feeble sun had melted most of the ice. For another, he insisted that every member of court attend the Christmas celebrations in Milan, whether they were in mourning or not.

Of the myriad princes in Italy, none celebrated Christmas with greater zeal than Duke Galeazzo. He required all courtiers, all ambassadors, all feudatories to come to Milan to celebrate the Nativity and renew their vows of fealty to him the day after, on the feast of Saint Stephen. Everyone, except the dying and the mortally ill, was required to attend, for the holiday marked the end and beginning of the year. The duke gave gifts to his underlings, alms to the poor, pardons to the convicted; during the week, he attended mass at different venues, the better to be seen by his loyal subjects. On the twenty-sixth, Saint Stephen’s Day, he went to the church of Santo Stefano; on the twenty-seventh, Saint John the Evangelist’s Day, he went to the church of San Giovanni, and so forth.

Bona had tears in her eyes when she told me of the duke’s decision; the court was leaving the next morning for the Castle Porta Giovia in the center of Milan, and I, in my black veil, was required to go, too. I turned from her, speechless, but she put a hand upon my shoulder to draw me back.

“He is being embalmed,” she said, and I realized she meant Matteo. “Come with me to Milan, please. And when we return to Pavia, the duke will be distracted, and I will see to it that you are able to take Matteo to Florence for burial.”

The following morning found me riding silently on horseback alongside Francesca and the other chattering chambermaids next to the furnished, velvet-draped wagon that held Bona and the children. It was a sunny winter’s day, harshly bright and blue, with a wind that stole all warmth. The roads were slush and mud; my cape grew quickly spattered. Matteo’s saddlebag, packed with the little book in cipher and Bona’s triumph cards, was strapped to my mount. From time to time, it brushed the back of my leg, bringing fresh grief.

Milan lies due north of Pavia, one day’s easy ride away, on flat roads across the Po River basin. Given the size and lumbering pace of our caravan, however, we set out at dawn and did not reach our destination until well after dusk.

Nestled on a plain, the city stretches out to the horizon, where the distant, snowy flanks of the Alps graze the heavens. The light was failing by the time my horse’s hooves struck cobblestone, but I could still see the four towers of the ducal castle, Porta Giovia, and the flickering yellow glow emanating from its windows. Across the broad avenue was the cathedral, the Duomo, its face covered with dark, skeletal scaffolding. Spires from other cathedrals—San Giovanni, Santo Stefano, Sant’ Ambrogio—reared up from an endless span of red-tiled rooftops.

Normally I would have taken pleasure in the journey and the sights of the city, which we frequented only once or twice a year because the palace there was cramped compared to Pavia, and the city streets noisier and dirtier than the countryside. But that night I felt only bitterness; the festive spirits of those surrounding me were rude, the glory of Milan mocking. The ducal apartments were adorned with pomanders and evergreen, and fragrant with mulled wine; I found it all offensive.

In the little closet off Bona’s room, I shared a bed with Francesca. Happily, she fell quickly asleep. I brought out the little book from Matteo’s saddlebag and lit the lamp, and stared at page after page of my husband’s mysterious cipher. After an hour, I realized that the headings for each separate entry must have been days or dates or times, and I distracted myself from miserable grief by trying possible substitutions for the different symbols.

I did not put out the light until Francesca stirred and complained drowsily a few hours before dawn. Even then, I did not sleep, but lay still, thinking of Matteo, the cipher, and the triumph cards.

Two days passed in a blur of audiences, masses, banquets, dances, and concerts, the last performed by Galeazzo’s magnificent choir of thirty souls. Despite the weather, the streets of Milan were crowded with those who had come to watch the ceremony of the Yule log, and those who had come to proclaim their loyalty to Galeazzo for another year.

On Christmas Eve Day, the duke held a grand audience for petitioners; when sunset approached, we courtiers and servants stood in the first-floor great hall as His Grace lit the
ciocco,
the Yule log that was to be tended so that it burned for as long as possible. Once darkness had taken hold, Bona called for me to attend her in the ducal chambers. There, in the family’s private dining chamber, I stood while Bona, her two daughters, two sons, and Caterina sat at the table watching the duke direct his brothers Ottaviano and Filippo. Together, Ottaviano—the youngest brother, slight and willowy, with a delicate, feminine face and long dark hair uncharacteristic of the Sforzas—and Filippo—second eldest, sturdy of body but feeble of intellect—carried a huge log of oak through the doorway and set it down atop a bough of juniper set in the hearth.

Despite the closed windows, the reedy wail of the traditional
zampogni,
the pipes played only at Christmas, filtered up from the duke’s private courtyard below.

“Ugh!” Filippo exclaimed, once freed of his burden. “It’s fatter than Cicco! This one will surely burn till New Year’s.”

“Back away, back away!” Galeazzo scolded excitedly, and took his place in front of the fireplace. His face was flushed, his words thick; he had already drunk a good deal of wine. A servant handed him a lit taper, and he held the flame to the juniper; it caught with a fragrant flare, and he laughed, pleased, as he handed the candle back.

With his right hand, he made the sign of the cross, and snapped his fingers at his cupbearer, who filled his goblet with fresh wine and gave it to him. Once the juniper had caught in earnest, the duke splashed a bit of wine on the log, as custom required, and took a long swallow from his cup. This he passed to Filippo, who handed it to Ottaviano, who respectfully delivered it to Bona; it made its way down the hierarchy to arrive last of all to me.

I emptied the cup, although there was less than a full sip left, thanks to Caterina swallowing far more than her share.

The duke then tossed a gold ducat onto the fire, and from a red velvet bag, handed one gold coin apiece to his brothers, children, and wife. My lowly status stifled his generosity, however, and he turned his back to me; Bona pressed her coin into my palm, so that I might enjoy an increase in wealth in the coming year.

Fortunately, the duke was not so stingy when it came to food and drink, and I was allowed to sit between his natural daughters, Chiara and Caterina. There was a surfeit of marvelous food, including a pigeon tart with prunes that normally would have tempted me, and ravioli stuffed with pig’s liver and herbs, but I had no taste for it. I had not wanted to attend the family gathering, and had asked Bona to excuse me, but the duke had gotten wind of it and insisted that I come so that “things would be as they are every year.” And to make sure of it, he had ordered that I dispense with mourning and dress in holiday attire; I had no choice but to obey, and so chose a gown of dark green velvet, but wore no gold and no smile.

Galeazzo and Filippo proceeded to get very drunk indeed, and by the time the feast was well under way, their conversation grew peppered with thinly veiled metaphors about the pleasures of defiling virgin flesh. At one point, the duke began to thrust a grilled sausage in and out of the stuffed capon on his plate, in a pointedly sexual manner, while Filippo howled with laughter. Caterina grinned, and Bona flushed and grew quiet. By the time supper was finished, Bona was eager to shoo the children out of the chamber and leave herself. I rose with her and accompanied her to the door; as she turned and bade her husband good night, he looked up from the table, his eyes heavy-lidded and glittering from drink, and said:

“Not her. You can go, but she must stay.”

He had never made such a request, and both the duchess and I were troubled by it, until Galeazzo repeated, “She must stay. And you must have one of your ladies fetch the triumph cards Lorenzo gave you straightaway.” When Bona hesitated to direct a fearful glance at me, he slammed his fist upon the table so hard that the empty platters rattled.

When silence followed, I said to her, “Your Grace, please forgive me, but the cards are in your quarters, inside the trunk at the foot of my cot.”

Bona stared at me as if I were the Devil himself, come to steal her soul. Without a word, she curtsied to her husband and left, taking all the children with her; Caterina passed by last, pausing briefly to study me, her expression both curious and oddly worried. I stood awkwardly by the door for a quarter hour while the duke and his drunken brothers ignored me and the conversation grew ever more raucous. When Francesca finally arrived with the diamond-studded red velvet box, my anxiety increased.

“Sit,” Galeazzo said, slurring, gesturing at the chair directly across from him. His brother Filippo made an exaggerated show of hurrying to pull the chair out for me, as if I were the duchess. He and the duke laughed, but I curtsied and sat with dignity, placing the box in front of me on the table and resting one hand atop it.

Only the girlish, delicate Ottaviano said hesitantly, “But you are in mourning, Dea. Was the loss recent?”

“My husband,” I answered, and acknowledged his kindness with a nod. At that instant, a wave of grief mixed with rage overtook me, and I resolved that I would speak the truth to Galeazzo without fear. I would have been grateful to incur his wrath and die for it.

“Enough of that,” the duke said, dismissing the gloomy subject with a curt gesture. “She’s going to tell me my fortune for the coming year, boys.” He leveled his dangerous gaze at me; for once, I returned it without disguising my hatred. “Except that this time”—his voice dropped to a malicious whisper—“my luck will be quite good, won’t it, my dear?”

“Can we know our fortunes?” Filippo asked, with inebriated enthusiasm. His face was flushed, his lips crooked in an intoxicated grin. “My lord, may we know, too?”

Ottaviano seconded him so eagerly that the duke waved for silence.

“It all depends,” he said, with a wink to his brothers, “on how cooperative the lady is. And such a lovely lady she has recently become.”

Filippo laughed—half from nerves, half from delight—as the duke reached out and put a warm, sweating hand upon mine. Disgusted, I slipped mine out from under his and instinctively glanced behind me to confirm that Bona was indeed gone, as were all the servants save the duke’s cupbearer and a pair of bodyguards who had appeared silently in front of the closed, and now bolted, doors.

I suppose I should not have been surprised, yet I had always believed that my relationship with Bona protected me, that the duke would no more lay a hand on me than he would his own daughters. For an instant, I considered screaming and pounding on the door, but I had heard too many times how little such behavior availed the other women who sought escape. I could rely only on my wits.

“Your Grace,” I said, with feigned confidence, “I will read your cards. For the sake of accuracy, let us have silence. You must think only of the question you would ask and nothing else.”

“I stated the question,” the duke countered, with a hint of irritation, and slouched forward with both elbows on the table. He propped his chin upon both hands, as if his head had grown too heavy to hold up. “My future for the coming year.”

“Then think on that, Your Grace,” I said coolly, and took the cards from the velvet box. They were warm, as if they had been stored close to a hearth, and despite the fact that they were much larger than playing cards, they shuffled easily this time, as if tailored to my grasp. I mixed them for as long as I dared, praying silently all the while. I saw no point in calling upon God; I spoke to the only one I still trusted.

Matteo, help me. Help me to get out of here untouched and alive.

Filippo broke the silence with a drunken giggle; Ottaviano joined in, but the duke had grown serious and hissed at them to be quiet.

I, too, grew deeply still, and surrendered even my prayers in order to listen to the cards whispering in my hands. Instinct directed me to gather them up, stack them neatly, and push the pile to the center of the dining table, within Galeazzo’s reach.

“Cut them, Your Grace,” I directed. An odd calm descended upon me, turning my feigned confidence into something real, a strange and ancient authority.

Leaning heavily upon his left elbow, chin still propped upon a fist, Galeazzo reached out with his right hand. It was unsteady, and on his first attempt to cut the deck, he dropped the cards, overturning some, and swore.

“No matter, Your Grace,” I said smoothly. “Gather them up, and cut again. It is all as fate wishes it to be.”

By then, Galeazzo was scowling and visibly unnerved. Filippo’s drunken grin had vanished; he and Ottaviano were paying careful attention to their brother’s changing mood. Galeazzo pushed the cards back into a pile and cut them. I placed one stack atop the other, and took them back across the table.

I drew a card from the top of the deck, turned it over, and dropped into another world.

Before me, a glittering marble tower reared up against the bright blue sky, its pinnacle so high that wisps of clouds kissed it. At the top—so far up, they appeared as small as flies—two stonemasons wielded mortar and plane to build ever higher. This was the Tower of Babel, I realized, representing the hubris of man; and as I tilted my head far back to study its apex and the men working there, a roiling indigo cloud rushed from the horizon and enclosed the pinnacle and the men.

It was the wrath of God, this cloud, and it birthed a blue-tinged, blinding bolt of lightning; the crack and roar was so ominous, I shrieked and covered my ears. At the same instant, the Tower exploded, sending shards of shattered marble hurtling to earth. The masons’ screams grew louder as they fell, headfirst, into oblivion. One of them, flailing a steel blade, I recognized as the King of Swords, he who metes out justice. I dropped to my knees and covered my head as he and a second man struck the earth beside me.