The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  I obeyed and shooed the still-gaping laundress and chambermaids out the chamber door while Caterina came inside. She sat in front of the hearth while I brought the basin and dabbed at her purpling upper lip with a cloth. I was weak with relief; clearly, had Girolamo known that his wife was an adulteress, he would have thrown her over the balcony and dashed her brains out on the flagstones below.

  “Thank God,” I murmured, as I dabbed at Caterina’s wound with a none-too-steady hand. “Thank God . . .”

  Caterina let go a vehement sigh. “Fetch my mirror.”

  I hurried over to the dressing table where the hand mirror rested. When I brought it to her, she scowled at the polished steel surface.

  “Fucking bastard! Look at my lip! And my cheek is swelling, too.” She lowered the mirror and looked grimly at me. “How long before the bruises are gone?”

  “A week, at the earliest.”

  “I cannot wait a week! I must see him again—if not today, then certainly tomorrow!”

  I gasped in disbelief at the realization that she was speaking of Gerard de Montagne. “Madonna, you are mad!”

  She grinned. “Perhaps I am, but if you had ever experienced what I did last night, you would understand my desire to see Gerard again. From now on, however, I will exercise more caution.” She lifted the mirror and frowned again at her reflection. “Now, bring me some salve and cold water. We must get this swelling down!”

  At Caterina’s insistence, I penned another letter to Monsieur Gerard.

  My darling,

  My husband is suspicious; we were spied upon at the Palazzo Borgia, and news of our embrace traveled back to him. I am still concerned that whoever spied upon us in my garden may still tell what he knows. My husband is not a tolerant man, and has already indulged his temper upon me; I fear what retribution he might take should he know the full truth.

  Even so, I cannot bear to wait until I see you again; you transported me to heights of ecstasy I have never before known. Tell me when and where I can meet you next, safely and discreetly—and quickly, my love, for each moment apart from you is pure torment.

  Your secret beloved

  This time, I bribed one of the French artists working on a mural in the chapel. He had no loyalty to Girolamo, and no one would find it odd for him to visit the French embassy. Monsieur Gerard was so eager to receive the message that he made the artist wait while he encrypted a reply on the spot.

  Bellisima, Gerard wrote, O most beautiful one, my heart breaks to tell you that I cannot see you today or tomorrow. But early this Friday morning, your husband is leaving on political business for Faenza and Forlì—did he not tell you? The trip itself will find him on the road twenty days.

  He then gave directions to a palazzo owned by someone who would gladly permit its use and was “a champion of love, utterly discreet about such matters.”

  Meet me there at midday on Friday, after you are certain the count has departed, he wrote. Let us waste no time!

  For the next three weeks, every weekday at noon, Caterina and I rode into the city in a carriage driven by her favorite groom—a shy, taciturn young lad who blushed wildly every time his mistress appeared. So smitten was he that he would accept no bribe for keeping his lady’s secret, “for it is,” he said, “my honor to serve her.”

  I wanted desperately to remain behind. I thoroughly disapproved of my mistress’s scandalous behavior, but it would set household tongues wagging if I did not accompany her as a chaperone.

  “Besides,” Caterina told me, “I would not feel safe without you.”

  We traversed the city in an unmarked carriage, ostensibly to indulge Caterina’s desire to adorn herself and her surroundings. We visited goldsmiths, jewelers, silk merchants, artists’ workshops, each time making some purchase to prove that the contessa had, in fact, gone where she claimed to be going.

  But always, before the church bells rang at midday, Caterina and I climbed back into the carriage and lowered the black gauze curtains as our driver urged the horses to the northeastern edge of the city proper. We made our way to the neighborhood surrounding the Piazza di Spagna, the Spanish Plaza, to a narrow road that terminated in a cul-de-sac, where a few small palaces stood, each walled and gated for protection’s sake.

  The property was obviously owned by someone very wealthy, for a gatekeeper was always on duty and the driveway was covered with new flagstone. The original structure had been razed and replaced by the ubiquitous three-story rectangular palace of classical Roman design in polished stone. The interior, although sparsely furnished, featured the finest marble floors and walls covered by breathtaking tapestries.

  We were welcomed inside by a jaded-looking, middle-aged noblewoman whose palpable boredom did not waver when she first looked on the dazzling Caterina, dressed in gleaming white and gold.

  “Good day, Your Illustrious Highness,” she said, with a faint foreign accent as she curtsied to Caterina. She led us upstairs to a bedchamber that was far more sumptuously appointed than the rest of the house.

  Standing beside the bed awaiting his beloved was Gerard de Montagne, dressed in only his short white chemise and blue leggings.

  “My God,” he said, as Caterina entered, “I had forgotten how lovely you are! But what is this?” He rushed to take Caterina’s hands in his and stared at her bruised lip and cheek. “My darling! Oh, my sweet, what sort of ogre could dare despoil such a beautiful face? I should kill him!” This last phrase was said with altogether unconvincing bravado.

  Caterina waved his words away, and simpered. “Small cost for such enormous pleasure.”

  The conversation that followed was painfully vapid. I directed my face toward the carpet and studied the exotic Moorish pattern there until the two lovers began to grope each other, at which point I murmured a request to be dismissed.

  To my surprise, the middle-aged servant was waiting for me just outside the door. “Come,” she said pleasantly. “There is cool watered wine and refreshments waiting for you.”

  She led me across the corridor, to a sitting room where an open window overlooked a view of a landscaped garden. She gestured. “Sit. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to hear your lady when she calls.”

  I settled into a red satin chair next to a table that held a carafe of watered wine, an empty goblet, and a tray of pastries and figs; the instant I did, a lad hurried into the room, picked up a large feather fan, and began to wave it solemnly. I felt quite guilty—it did not seem right that I should enjoy being party to such a wicked venture—but the day was hot and the fan directed the breeze to me so nicely that I did not tell the boy to leave. Familiarity with crime, however, soon eases guilt, and by the fifth day, I had not only become comfortable at the little palazzo in the Spanish neighborhood, but had also come to enjoy the excellent wine served there, as well as the little dishes doña Maria, the greeter, brought me.

  Caterina’s proclivity for the sexual act shocked me; her temper was beastly on Sundays, the one day she did not visit the little palazzo, and remarkably agreeable the rest of the week. And her visits with Gerard, during the month Girolamo was gone, grew progressively longer.

  On the seventh visit to the palazzo, Caterina spent an additional hour in the bedchamber with Gerard beyond our allotted time. I was in the sitting room, reading one of the books I had discovered upon a shelf—and thinking of Luca, who had accompanied the count to Faenza—when I heard doña Maria greet someone entering through the front door downstairs.

  A man answered her, and a brief exchange followed. I could make out the voices but not the gist. His arrival alarmed me, especially when I heard heavy footfalls on the stairs. The open door to the sitting room was only a few paces from the landing, so I signaled for my little fan-wielder to stop and retreat to a corner while I hid behind the half-ajar door.

  I peered through the crack and watched as Rodrigo Borgia, in his scarlet robes and skullcap, ascended the stairs and made his way down the hall. Directly across from my hiding place, only a f
ew paces from me, he paused at the closed door to Gerard and Caterina’s chamber, and inclined his ear toward the lovers’ muffled groans of pleasure.

  I feared he would open the door to their borrowed bedchamber; instead, he grinned and nodded in approval, and continued down the corridor. When I heard a door farther down the hallway open and close, I peered out cautiously; the way was clear.

  I hurried across the corridor to the lovers’ chamber and rapped softly on the wooden door. No reply came, so I cracked open the door and stepped quickly inside, my gaze averted—but not enough to escape a glimpse of a naked Caterina kneeling on all fours on the edge of the bed, her shins hanging free, and an equally unclad Gerard standing on the floor just behind her, fully erect and parting her flesh in anticipation of entry.

  “Forgive me, Madonna, forgive me, Monsieur,” I hissed. “Rodrigo Borgia has come. He is in a room down the hall. We must leave at once before he discovers you.”

  Gerard backed away and covered himself with his chemise. “Good God!” he exclaimed, then caught himself and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I should have taken note of the hour.” He turned his bare back to me and balanced on one foot as he pushed the other into his gathered leggings.

  Displeased, the contessa whispered to him, “What is Borgia doing here?”

  “He owns this house. I received permission to use it at midday, when it is always vacant, from a dear friend of his. He has many friends who use this place when they desire privacy.” Gerard pulled on his chemise, tunic, and boots with practiced speed as he spoke. “I of course told no one the name of the lady I was bringing here.”

  Once he had finished dressing, he moved swiftly to take Caterina’s hand and kiss it. “Forgive me, my darling, but I must go; it is better that I not be seen with you. I suggest you leave at once, and quietly.”

  Caterina opened her mouth to reply, but Gerard dropped her hand and darted out of the chamber and down the stairs.

  I gathered up all of Caterina’s clothing and stuffed her into it.

  The corridor was clear. I signaled to her, and preceded her out into the hall. She had just made it into the doorway when one of her slippers came loose; she paused to press one hand against the jamb and adjust the slipper with the other.

  I was already on the landing, and glanced back at her just as she stepped into the hallway. At the same instant, several rooms behind her, a door opened, and Cardinal Borgia emerged in a long undershirt and mulberry and yellow leggings.

  “But what fair lady is this?” he called after her. “As your host, I must welcome you!”

  Caterina froze. We stared at each other for an instant, uncertain whether to bolt or stand fast. My lady’s expression transformed from one of anxiety to one of dignified repose. She turned to face Borgia, and bowed shallowly from her shoulders.

  “Your Holiness,” she said sweetly.

  Borgia’s lips parted in amazement; the gesture transformed into a great wolfish grin. “Why, Your Illustrious Highness! What a delightful surprise to see you again!”

  “And you,” Caterina answered. “But I am late and must go.”

  She took a step toward the staircase, but Borgia caught her arm.

  “Ah, my lovely Madonna Caterina,” he said, still showing his teeth. “Do not leave just yet. Your husband is away; who will notice if you are late returning home?”

  Caterina remained calm. “I have obligations. Unhand me, please.”

  Borgia’s grip tightened. “Women are never so beautiful as they are after satisfying lovemaking,” he murmured. “And Caterina, you are the most beautiful of all. I did not take offense at your earlier rejection, nor press my cause because you are so young—and, I thought, sheltered and inexperienced, but I see now that is not the case. I will give you the world, my darling, if only you would grant me some small favors. . . .”

  He stroked her cheek; she turned it brusquely away, and he laughed softly.

  “Am I wrong in believing you are much like me?” he asked. “Practical and aware that life is too short to deny oneself pleasure? More awaits you, Madonna. Come to my chamber”—he gestured behind him at the open door to his room—“and see what a far more experienced man can do for you. Your Frenchman is a callow youth, so eager in satisfying his own desires that he does not know how to lead a woman to the brink of ecstasy and keep her there for hours. Besides, someone else is coming to join me, one who would dearly appreciate your company. I can promise you an afternoon you will never forget.”

  Caterina lifted her free arm and slapped him full across the face.

  A murderous blaze flared in his eyes, then dimmed. “Boldness becomes you,” he said approvingly. “Without it, you would be just another pretty trinket, but I am that rare beast who admires strength in a woman.”

  To prove it, he pressed her to him for a lingering kiss intended to impress her with his finesse. Caterina pounded his chest with her fists, and kicked his legs, but he was the stronger. When he was satisfied, he pulled back, amused, and held her at arm’s length to study her reaction.

  Caterina’s features were contorted by hate as she spat into the cardinal’s eyes. Borgia wiped them on his sleeve as Caterina said, her voice trembling with rage, “You are old and disgusting and stink of garlic. Let me go.”

  Borgia’s smile was gone now as he caught both her arms. “I may be older, Caterina, but I am far wealthier than even your Girolamo, and twice as powerful. He is too foolish and hotheaded to live very long. I can give you more than he could ever hope to.”

  “I could never love you,” Caterina sneered.

  “That’s altogether beside the point, my dear.” A threatening note crept into Borgia’s tone. “I would think that you would be more concerned about the fact that I might reveal your affair to your husband.” He glanced pointedly at her swollen lip. “I have come to know Girolamo rather well; it seems you have noticed, too, that his impetuous temper often leads him to violence. I would hate to see what he might do should he learn his young wife has been unfaithful.”

  Seething, Caterina pulled away with a jerk; this time, Borgia let her go.

  “And I will tell my husband that you made this tryst possible—and that you have tried repeatedly to seduce me!”

  He laughed scathingly. “Girolamo strikes first and asks questions later. I doubt your pretty mouth would be able to form the words after the initial blow. I doubt, in fact, that you would live long enough to tell him anything about me. Or that your Frenchman would survive such a revelation.”

  “You are quite right,” Caterina replied hotly. “Therefore, I will go first to my husband and tearfully confess to him that you are my lover, and that you first took me by force in your pleasure garden, using your drugged wine. I don’t doubt that Girolamo has heard of it. I will go to him begging for his protection and forgiveness, saying that I never wanted to become involved in the first place, and am overwhelmed by shame—and that I expect the worst sort of retaliation from you, a man who thinks nothing of corrupting beautiful young women. I may be forced to endure a beating, but I will not lose my property or my position, as you well may.

  “Perhaps, before my husband returns home, I might make my confession to Pope Sixtus, who is especially fond of me and weakens at the sight of a woman’s tears. Good day, Your Holiness.” Caterina gathered her skirts, turned her back to him, and nodded for me to head down the stairs.

  In the instant before I turned, I caught a glimpse of the cardinal’s expression as he watched Caterina leave. His simmering anger had vanished; in its place was a look of fascination, determination, and total infatuation.

  As we hurried down, he called after us, his tone oddly lighthearted.

  “You can always change your mind. I understand that your husband will not be returning from Faenza for some weeks.”

  By the time we reached the entryway, doña Maria was just opening the front door. As I dashed over the threshold, I nearly collided with a pretty, green-eyed brunette—the French ambassador’s wife�
�who was trying to enter. She stepped back to let us pass, and at the sight of the somewhat disheveled Caterina, let go a short laugh of astonishment.

  “Your Illustriousness!” she exclaimed, with a sly, evilly delighted grin.

  “Your Grace,” I muttered beneath my breath.

  Caterina swept past her without a word. Together we made haste to the carriage.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Caterina refused to stop seeing her French lover; on four occasions, she returned to Borgia’s secret palazzo—always at the stroke of midday, when it was the Spanish cardinal’s custom to give Pope Sixtus a daily report on Church affairs while the two dined together. She never again made the mistake of staying at the palazzo more than an hour. On other occasions, she rode with Gerard to empty meadows or forests on the edge of the city. I would leave her and her lover in the carriage, and, with the blushing driver, walk far enough away that we could not hear the pair’s impassioned cries as the carriage rocked.

  In the meantime, Caterina informed her lover of Borgia’s unwanted attentions, but Gerard reacted with insufficient outrage, instead warning her to take care “not to insult the cardinal unnecessarily, for it is not good to be his enemy.” Although Gerard’s cowardice disgusted her, she did not let her opinion of his character intrude upon her enjoyment of his physical attributes.

  I scolded Caterina constantly; she was playing with not just her reputation, but with her life. I gathered my courage and told her that once Girolamo returned home, I would no longer go with her to meet Gerard.

  For that, she slapped me, but I held my ground. It was during this time that a letter arrived addressed to the contessa and bearing Borgia’s seal. Caterina read it aloud to me with a good deal of triumph and sarcasm:

  Your Most Illustrious Highness,

  I perceive in you great bravery, intelligence, and determination. To me, such qualities are as appealing as physical beauty, which of course you also possess to an infinite degree.

  Forgive me; I was wrong to treat you so rudely. You are clearly worthy of respect. Although you are still very young, I realize now that, were you a man, you would be as great and formidable a ruler as your father, the Duke of Milan.