Chapter Twenty-Four
It was not death, at least not immediately, that waited for her on her return to consciousness. Her first sensation was pain, then hunger, then profound disorientation. The room was pitch black and the bed was unfamiliar. Turning her head to the right, she saw a narrow band of light coming from under a door and heard indistinct voices. Turning her head to the left she cried out sharply, the full force of the pain hitting her.
She heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the door on her right and saw the room grow brighter, but she was afraid to either turn her head or open her eyes, not because of the pain but because she feared what she might see. She had told Nilo to be careful, that one of the men would be dangerous, but she had scarcely predicted how dangerous. Kidnapping her, she feared, was just the beginning of his plan. Fearful of what else he might have in store for her, she said a silent, fervent prayer.
“Bianca, can you hear me?” For a moment after she heard the voice, Bianca lay immobile in the now broken darkness, blinking back tears of joy. Then she turned, slowly, and nodded at Francesco.
“No, don’t try to sit up.” Roberto pushed her back down. “You should keep still for a while. The bullet just grazed your shoulder, but you lost quite a large quantity of blood.”
“Where am I?” were the first words Bianca could find.
“You are in our spare room. We wanted you near us so we could monitor you,” Francesco explained, too quickly.
“But my apartment is just across the ballroom,” Bianca’s mind was beginning to function again.
“Yes, so it is.” Francesco looked imploringly at Roberto.
There was a long silence before he spoke. “Ian thought you should be in a room without quite so many doors and windows.”
If Bianca had had enough blood in her body, she would have blushed. “Is Ian hurt?”
Francesco shook his head. “No. Apparently you were the only target there today.”
There was a knock on the open door, and they all turned to see Crispin enter the room.
“I just wanted to tell you that next time you don’t like the fabric of my waistcoat, you have merely to tell me. No need to go dashing around the city throwing your money about.” He smiled brightly as he spoke.
Bianca extended her hand to him, and he took it in both of his. “It wasn’t the waistcoat, really, it was the way it went with your jacket.” She looked up at him. “Can you really forgive me for what I did today?”
He nodded, not releasing her hand. “I have to admit you had me baffled, but Ian explained it all to me and I think I understand.”
“Really? Because I must say that I do not.” No one had heard Ian enter, but his words cooled the atmosphere in the room to somewhere near that of the frozen north. “I was hoping you could explain it to me. I am sure we will have a good laugh.”
The thin line of his lips, lips that promised never to laugh again, belied his statement. Bianca raked her eyes across his face, searching. The man she had so recently seen, the man she had fallen in love with, the one to whom she had striven to prove her innocence, was gone. She shuddered when she looked into his eyes, the color of slate in the dead of winter.
“My intention, my lord—” it was no struggle for Bianca to address him formally, “—was to scare the murderer into revealing himself.”
“Murderer?” Crispin asked, surprised.
Ian ignored his brother. “What a delightful idea. And did it not occur to you that this revelation might come at the expense of someone else’s life? Your own, for example?”
“Murderer?” Crispin tried again, with equal success
“I must admit,” Bianca said only to Ian, “that it did not. I see now that I was mistaken.”
“Mistaken?” Ian boomed at her in a tone worthy of Valdo Valdone. “You call almost losing your life a mistake?”
“Did I have a choice?” Bianca shot back at him. “Did I have any other way to prove my innocence to you? You told me that you would believe I was a murderess until and unless I brought you a more likely candidate. You left me no alternative.”
Crispin, completely baffled, swiveled his head from Bianca to Ian. “Murderess? Her?”
Ian ignored him once again, his lips even thinner. “You dare to blame me for what happened there today?”
“It is nothing compared to what you have blamed me for.” Bianca’s face was white, not from blood loss but from rage. “I suppose you have already figured out some way to use this as additional evidence of my guilt. No doubt I even arranged to be shot.”
“I put nothing past you, Signorina Salva.” Ian turned and stalked out of the room.
He made directly for his library, desperately in need of a drink and solitude. He was furious with her for her idiotic scheming, furious at himself for making it necessary. With his first deep gulp of grappa he admitted that he was confused down to the bottom of his being, racked with a hundred unanswered and unanswerable questions. The one most prominent in his mind was also the most painful: if he had told her earlier that he knew she was innocent, could he have prevented her from endangering her life? The second glass of grappa brought with it a thought almost as bitter as the liquor itself, that her life might not really have been in danger. Could this have been just another part of a wildly elaborate plot to falsely convince him of her innocence? Could she indeed be a murderer? He had long since ceased to believe it possible, but he could no longer remember why. The pieces all still pointed to her. She had, after all, suggested the possibility herself. By the fourth serving of grappa, Ian could not recall what it was that convinced him of her innocence, and he decided to decide that she was guilty. Only his heart refused to concur. He directed a twisted grimace at himself for being taken in by her coy smiles, her feigned expressions, her passionate sighs, her words of love. The grappa bottle was emptied with the last thought, and Ian sat unthinking, staring into space. He was still sitting there when the guard came with the news.
Bianca Salva, unmarried gentildonna, had been anonymously denounced for the murder of the courtesan Isabella Bellocchio. The said Signorina Salva was requested to appear in the chambers of the civil judges at the stroke of nine the next morning, Thursday, to hear the evidence against her and make her defense, if she could think of one. Only her relatives and her betrothed husband would be admitted to submit pleas on her behalf. These were capital charges, the guard needlessly specified, bringing with them a mandatory sentence of death.
Isabella Bellocchio went from being a social-climbing whore to being a pitiable victim of female jealousy, literally overnight. By the time the clock at San Marco was striking nine the next morning, the second-floor hallway in front of the chambers of the Civile judges was packed with people, despite the shin-high puddles that had to be traversed to get there. The Doge’s Palace, which housed all the organs of the government that kept Venice prosperous and safe, was built at the lowest point of the city. This made it prone to flooding even during mild winters, and the unflagging rainfall the city had experienced that winter had turned the ground floor first into a puddle, then into a lake. That did nothing to slow the influx of spectators, however. No hardship was too great to suffer, no body of water too deep to cross, for the privilege of watching a young, beautiful, rich, headstrong patrician get what she had coming to her.
The denunciation had been read to Bianca in bed, and a guard had been posted in the room with her to make sure she did not escape during the night. He also seemed bent on ensuring that she did not sleep, for he spent the entire time humming a tune to himself that sounded strangely like a funeral march. In spite of having spent a less than salubrious night, the Bianca that faced Bianca in the mirror early that morning looked better than either of them would have expected.
She dressed with care, wincing in pain each time her shoulder moved. Her appearance that day was of paramount impo
rtance, she knew, because her fate lay exclusively in the opinions of the three judges appointed to hear her case. More important than any evidence for or against her was their perception of her. A nod, a wink, a smile, or a frown that looked like the nod, wink, smile, or frown of a murderess would be enough to doom her.
Not that it made much difference anyway. Upon hearing the accusation of murder she had ceased to care what happened to her. There was only one person who knew enough to make a persuasive denunciation, and only his opinion mattered to her. If Ian thought her guilty enough to denounce, then her future held nothing for her. Innocence, like guilt, would mean a life without him and that did not seem like much of a life at all.
When she announced to Roberto and Francesco that she would not even attempt a defense, they were frantic. They struggled to persuade her to change her mind and would even have argued with her, but she merely answered their questions with the silence she planned to maintain before the judges. Though she refused to yield to their persuasions, she did agree to wear whatever they selected for her. Seeing that her wardrobe would have to bear the full weight of her defense, Roberto and Francesco had stayed up well into the night arguing about what she should wear. The gown they finally selected for her was of somber burgundy silk with cream trim that matched the two large pearls pinning back the sleeves. It was the epitome of elegance and refinement, perfect for a day spent in courtly visiting. Or a day spent in court.
The way the gown complimented her skin tone was one of the two main topics of conversation when Bianca arrived, under guard, at the Doge’s Palace. The other was the large contingent of courtesans and prostitutes who were standing slightly apart from the rest of the spectators. Everyone else held their breath as Bianca passed by them, secretly expecting the women to rip her limb from limb for killing one of their number. What actually happened was more extraordinary, and never seen in those halls before or since. The women of the demimonde did indeed reach out to touch her, but with affection rather than malice. One woman, richly dressed in a tapestry gown that was rumored to cost seven hundred ducats, stepped forward and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Our prayers are with you, bellissima.” Tullia’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “We know you did not do this horrible deed. We will do anything we can for you.”
All the setbacks, all the hardships, all the physical injuries Bianca had suffered did not affect her as much as this simple gesture of solidarity from the women who seemingly had the most cause to hate her. The looks of sympathy and support on the faces of Tullia and Daphne and the others who crowded around them made her ashamed of her earlier decision. How could she have thought that life without Ian was life not worth living? How could she allow a man to determine the value of her existence? Particularly a man who, contrary to all appearances, insisted on thinking the worst of her. She would not be destroyed by the fact that he did not love her and refused to understand her. She would not give up that easily.
The eyes she turned on Tullia were misty. “Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me. Someday, if I am able to leave here, I hope I can tell you.” She would have liked to say more, but there was no opportunity. The guards on either side of her were urging her forward. The judges were ready to enter the chamber. It was time for her trial to begin.
The immense chairs for the three judges were already in place along the back wall of the chamber under the window when she entered. Bianca turned her head from left to right, taking in the dark, dismal room. Carved mahogany benches lined the side wall, all of them occupied by people whose faces were familiar to her. The only other woman in the courtroom was Aunt Anatra, flanked by her son, Angelo, on one side, and her husband, Guiellmo, on the other. Anatra was glaring at her, horrified by the notoriety that was accruing every half minute to the Grifalconi family name. Angelo, looking overwrought and a bit green, appeared to be animated by the same strong emotions as his mother. And so deeply did they effect Guiellmo, the scion of the family, that he had dozed off.
Next to her kinsmen were the Arboretti, accompanied by Francesco and Roberto. All of them but Ian. They nodded amicably when she looked in their direction; Miles even attempted a smile. But no quantity of goodwill could compensate for Ian’s glaring absence. It was simply more evidence, if any were needed, that he was behind the denunciation. Her new sense of purpose had all but ebbed from her when the door to the chamber burst open and Ian stalked in. Ignoring Francesco’s and Roberto’s inquiring looks, he settled himself alongside the other Arboretti and sat scowling straight ahead, his brow wrinkled and his eyes squinting, as if he were deeply pained by a blistering headache.
As indeed he was. While making free with the bottle of grappa had seemed like a good idea the previous night, and using the bottle of amaretto as a chaser an even better one, the cool light of morning found him feeling less than his best. And if that were not enough, he had just endured two horrendous hours closeted with the Senate, the only body capable of lifting the death sentence hanging over Bianca. He had hurtled the full force of the Foscari name at them on Bianca’s behalf, to no avail. They had listened to his reasoned arguments about how she could not possibly be guilty, nodded sympathetically as he explained that even if she were guilty it was wildly disrespectful to try the betrothed of one of the oldest patrician families in Venice for murder, even sighed in agreement as he listed the many services he and his ancestors had rendered to the Republic that would make it an act of propriety—not mercy—to release the prisoner who was as good as a Foscari herself, but they had refused to drop the charges. He could not face Bianca, could not bear to look at her and let her read his failure in his face. He had tried to the best of his ability, had used the full weight of his title and political position, had even offered to take Bianca out of Venice and become a voluntary exile with her, and now all he could do was sit on this uncomfortable bench and watch as the one woman he had thought he might one day possibly find a way to begin to love was found guilty of murder.
His headache was not helped any by the guards who suddenly pulled themselves to attention and pounded the floor with staffs. Still scowling, he lifted his body from his seat along with the others in the room for the entrance of the judges. Until they entered the room, no one knew who they would be, an antique custom designed to eliminate judicial bribery. It did not, however, preclude someone making a liberal offer to all the likely candidates, as someone had that very morning. Walking into the chamber, at least one of the judges was busier trying to decide whether to spend his twelve hundred ducats on a new gondola or a new mistress, than trying to gauge Bianca’s guilt or innocence.
The judges passed before the spectators and seated themselves in their mammoth chairs. The crowd outside was making loud noises of protest as the porter struggled to shut the massive door on them. If they were not to be admitted, they argued, couldn’t he at least leave the door open so they could hear. He looked imploringly toward the judges, who often agreed to the measure, but they gave a unanimous “No.” They knew from experience that murder trials were apt to stir the passions of the masses, and this was no ordinary murder trial. When the door closed with difficulty, an ominous hush fell over the chamber.
Bianca stood alone in its middle, the light of the window hitting her squarely in the face, and did not flinch. Her earlier resolution returned and she determined to fight. She would not give Ian, who seemed unable to even meet her eyes, the pleasure of getting rid of her so easily. One of the judges, a tall thin man Bianca recognized as Alvise da Ponte, rose. The only difference between him and a corpse, Bianca thought as he opened the proceedings, was that corpses’ beards could not grow. Neither his outward aspect nor his hollow, ghostlike voice did anything to improve the atmosphere of dark foreboding that permeated the chamber. When he had wheezed the customary opening prayer for wise judgment, he turned his long, death-mask face to Bianca.
“Signorina, as you know, the court does not act on anonymous denunci
ations unless they are accompanied by compelling proof. The accusations against you are weighty and well documented. You are denounced for the murder of Isabella Bellocchio, courtesan in this city. If you do not admit to the crime, you will be confronted with the proof we have and be given an opportunity to make a defense. The process will likely be time consuming and pointless; the proofs against you are manifold. I therefore advise you to admit your crime now. Doing so will save all of us much trouble, and God will be clement in his mercy. Will you?”
Roberto and Francesco stopped breathing.
Bianca looked right at him and spoke in a voice that did not falter. “I did not murder Isabella Bellocchio.”
Ser Alvise sighed with disappointment. He had hoped to spend a few days at his house in the mountains, out of the rain, but now it looked as though he would be stuck in Venice. “Very well. The accusation claims the following: on the afternoon of eleven November of this year you took the life of Isabella Bellocchio, courtesan, in her own bed. It says that having pressed your advances unsuccessfully upon Signorina Bellocchio for a long time, you were finally seized by a fit of jealousy and driven to stab her in the heart. Still not satisfied, you sequestered the body and spent days dismembering it and, what is worse, drawing it.”
The Stargazer: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book One Page 30
