Alas, Nature has made you a woman—a tragedy for you, but good fortune for men such as me, who perceive that females of strong character and wit are to be valued and encouraged to utilize their talents. What a shame that I am wed to Mother Church, and you to another—for were we to join forces, all of Italy would be ours for the taking.
Consider that, and put aside your pretty Frenchman; he is a witless boy, and will amount to nothing. I, however, promise you unimaginable wealth and power. I stand ever ready to become
Your servant,
Rodrigo Llançol y Borgia
When she had finished reading, Caterina laughed until her face was flushed. I, however, remained solemn as I contemplated what the cardinal had written.
“Unbelievable,” I said at last. “He has trusted you with an unencrypted letter, signed by his own hand. You could easily shame him with this.”
Caterina gave an indignant little snort. “Only if I wanted to implicate myself. See how he says here, ‘Put aside your pretty Frenchman.’ I can hardly show this to Girolamo.”
I nodded. “But he is apologizing. I saw the look on his face as we were leaving. Madonna, he is in love with you.”
She made a noise of pure disgust. “That is his misfortune. I would rather join a nunnery than make love to him. He is old and oily.”
“He’s only ten years older than Girolamo,” I countered. “Although I agree, the thought is disgusting. Still . . . be careful not to insult him, Madonna. He is too wily and knows too much.”
The Spanish cardinal was indeed wily. The very next day, a messenger wearing the Borgia livery arrived. He knelt as he presented Her Illustriousness with a long rectangular box, which contained six long strands of perfect pearls.
Please accept this gift of friendship, Borgia had written, although it cannot do justice to your fair skin. Forgive my impertinence, and think of me kindly.
Caterina gave a small, self-satisfied smile at the sight of the jewels, then dictated a reply to the messenger. “Thank His Holiness for the gift,” she said. “But I must send it back. Tell him that my husband gave me a trunkful of pearls for a wedding gift. I have no need of more.”
The following day, another gift arrived from the same messenger: a pair of solid gold candlesticks, with a note in the cardinal’s hand comparing them to Caterina’s shining hair. The contessa rejected them as well.
On the third day, Borgia sent a large mirror in an ornate silver frame. At that point, Caterina sat and dictated a letter to me.
You were right, she said, that I am as brave as any man. And I must tell you to quit wasting your time, as I care nothing for trinkets or flattery. Far from it. My greatest wish in this life is to become a soldier. Like my father, I have a head for military strategy, and the fearlessness to implement it. In truth, I would make a far better captain of the papal army than my husband. Politics, power, war—these are things that pique my interest, not gowns or jewels.
“There,” she said triumphantly as the deflated messenger departed to return yet another gift to his lovelorn master. “That should give him pause.”
On the fourth day—and the fifth, sixth, and seventh—no message from Borgia was forthcoming. I believed that he had finally been discouraged or was plotting revenge.
Then, on the eighth day, when the contessa and I returned home from another midday rendezvous with Gerard, the messenger in Borgia livery was waiting for us. This time, when Caterina swept imperiously into her reception chamber, the messenger was down on one knee, his head bowed, his arms outstretched as if pleading.
Across his open palms lay an unsheathed halberd.
“Your Illustrious Highness,” the messenger said timidly, not daring to lift his head. “His Holiness wishes to convey that this is made of Toledo steel. The hilt is pure gold. He says, ‘To the fearless wife of the captain of the papal army: may all her enemies be defeated.’”
It was a lovely shining creation, polished to a dazzling gleam. The blade was slender but deadly; the golden hilt was cruciform, and the pommel an open sphere of ornate gold filigree.
Caterina took it reverently from the messenger’s hands and hoisted it easily, despite its heft; it was shorter than a man’s sword, as though it had been made expressly for her. She lunged and slashed the air with it, then, grinning, pointed it at me.
Her gaze was still on me as she spoke to the messenger. “Is there a sheath for it?”
“Yes, Your Illustriousness.” Still kneeling, he gestured at the finely tooled leather sheath on the floor in front of him, threaded onto a thick belt sized for a woman’s hips.
“Excellent,” Caterina said, slowly tilting the blade from side to side to watch the light glint off the steel. “Tell your master that I accept this gift in the spirit of friendship, and thank him for it.”
The servant bowed his head, rose, and backed out of the room.
When he was gone, I scowled in disapproval. “Do not think for a moment, Madonna, that he has only friendship in mind. I don’t trust him.”
Caterina lunged forward, striking at an imaginary foe with remarkable grace. “Nor do I,” she said, and swung the blade backhandedly. “Do you think I can’t protect myself from the likes of him? You underestimate me, Dea.”
She pivoted on her heel, skirts swirling, to attack the opposite direction with vigor.
“I hope you are right,” I said. But the truth was that I knew that, as clever as my lady was, she was no match for Rodrigo Borgia.
Nonetheless, Caterina recruited one of Girolamo’s drill instructors to sharpen her skill with the sword, and practiced diligently with the weapon every day.
Eventually, Count Girolamo returned home from his journey and for two nights demanded the nuptial company of his reluctant wife.
The third day after his return was the pope’s birthday. Custom demanded that His Holiness appear outside Saint Peter’s to address the crowd gathered in the square; however, Sixtus’s health allowed him only to wave at the cheering throngs for a few moments before being carried on a litter back to his apartments. Caterina, Girolamo, and Cardinal della Rovere joined him on the dais, and della Rovere spoke after His Holiness had departed; unfortunately, those gathered were too impatient to listen to anyone other than the pope himself, and della Rovere’s words were drowned out by the sound of his audience departing.
I stood just in front of the platform, straining out of courtesy to listen to the cardinal’s exaggerated praise of his kinsman, when my eye caught movement in the periphery of my vision. I inclined my head toward it, and saw the dark-haired scribe, Luca, with a politely attentive expression frozen on his face.
I almost turned away quickly; I was still embarrassed over my distrustful behavior toward Ser Luca, and expected that he was still angry with me. Yet when my unwilling gaze accidentally caught his, he smiled brilliantly at me before turning his attention again to the unfortunate speaker.
I smiled back, with great relief.
That day, Girolamo and the contessa held a feast for dozens of cardinals and other notables at the palazzo, as Sixtus was feeling unwell and did not wish to entertain at the Vatican. It was by far the most lavish banquet ever prepared at the Palazzo Riario; two enormous tables were brought in to seat a hundred diners. Among them were Cardinal Borgia and Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, who, though he still despised his cousin Girolamo, came for Caterina’s sake. I stood behind Caterina, supervising her cupbearer and making sure that della Rovere received the special attention due a guest of honor.
Despite the mounting heat, the banquet dragged on for hours, until everyone was sweating and exhausted, including Caterina, who grew suddenly pale before the final course was brought, even though one of the little slave boys was fanning her furiously. By the time I was at her side, she had pushed herself from the table and, without a single word, hurried out of the stuffy chamber.
By the time she made her way down the corridor to the stairs leading up to her apartments—with me following a step behind—she was ove
rcome. Pressing one hand to her stomach and the other against the wall, she hunched over and retched up the contents of the feast, which splattered against the white marble landing.
I caught her elbow and helped ease her down onto the first stairs, where she caught the cool stone railing and pressed her forehead to it, her eyes closed.
“Madonna, tell me how you feel.” I pressed my hand to her damp forehead. It was warm from the heat, but not feverish.
She groaned without opening her eyes. “Don’t make me talk,” she murmured. “Let me just sit. . . .”
The effort of speaking proved too much, and another wave of nausea overtook her. This time, she vomited mostly foamy yellow bile before resting her head again. We sat there until Caterina grew steady enough to go up to her bedchamber. I sent one of the maids down to the banquet hall to apologize to the guests, while another brought a pitcher of cold water and a soft cloth, which I dampened and pressed to my lady’s forehead.
An hour later, Caterina was still weak but much improved, and insisted I return to the banquet chamber to make sure Cardinal della Rovere was properly looked after. I did so, only to discover that he and almost all the other guests had left immediately after the final course. Only a few lingered, making conversation with their sated, drowsy host. As was common in summer, plague and a deadly fever were making their way through the poorer quarters of the city, and those remaining in Rome panicked easily when reminded of the fact.
I curtsied to Count Girolamo and announced that his wife was recovering quickly, that she had only been stricken by the heat because of her heavy gown. He accepted this with distracted relief.
I returned to my mistress, who was sitting up in her bed and hungry; I sat with her while she ate her fill of plain broth and bread. Soon afterward she fell soundly asleep. I would have remained with her, but by then one of the servants, a kindly old nurse, promised to watch over Caterina, and urged me to join the rest of the house staff in the banquet chamber; now that the guests had gone, the dining chamber was open to the household staff so that we could consume the remainders of the feast.
By the time I arrived in the chamber again, the room was crowded and a queue had formed of polite but insistent staff members and servants, all waiting to get their share of the spoils, which were being doled out by the cooks. I was obliged to wait my turn. Others, who had already sat down at the cleared banquet tables, were eating their fill; still others had finished, and were dancing to the tune played by lutists and pipers.
I intended to get my plate and cup and return to the contessa’s apartments to dine in private, but as I stood in line, watching the dancers, someone stepped in front of me to block my view.
The scribe Luca held a kitchen tray in his hands, bearing two heaped plates, two finger towels, two goblets, and a carafe of wine. He wore his dark silver brocade tunic with the lavender silk sleeves; an ink smudge adorned the very tip of his prominent nose, a fact of which he was charmingly unaware. The summer humidity had coaxed a few half-formed ringlets from his blue-black waves, and left the plume of the quill tucked behind his right ear bedraggled. His neatly trimmed beard was speckled with what appeared to be breadcrumbs.
I stared up, startled, at the dark gray eyes so close to the level of my own; they revealed no intimacy, no recognition, merely the polite detachment of a friendly stranger.
“Madonna,” he said loudly, in order to be heard over the music, conversation, and clatter of plates. “I have taken enough food for two, in case I discovered a friend with whom I wished to sup. Would you do me the honor?”
“Of course, sir.” My swift, affirmative reply astonished me. “Lead the way.”
He took me to a corner of the banquet table farthest from the musicians and the dancing, and chose a spot a few chairs distant on either side from the other chattering diners.
“I am so glad,” I said more softly as I sat and he set my cup and plate before me, “that you are not still angry at me. I want to apologize for my stupidity, my thoughtlessness.”
His gray gaze, still congenial but somewhat distant, was as blank as stone. “I don’t know what you’re referring to, Madonna. To my knowledge, we have not met before today.”
Confused, I opened my mouth and closed it again as the corners of his mouth finally curved upward and a glimmer of amusement passed over his features. I realized that, outside of the scribe’s hidden office, without any incriminating documents to bind us together, no one would be suspicious were we to “meet” for the first time under Count Girolamo’s roof and become friends.
“Of course,” I said, and did a half curtsy in my chair. “I am Dea, chief lady-in-waiting to Her Illustriousness.”
He finished emptying the contents of the tray onto the table, and turned to bow to me. “And I am Luca, one of His Illustriousness’s clerks.”
“How do you do, Ser Luca?”
“How do you do, Madonna Dea?”
“Please, just Dea.” I patted the chair beside me, and he sat.
“If you will call me just Luca.”
“Luca,” I said, savoring the name until an ominous thought struck me. “And have you a wife and children, Luca?”
“No,” he answered wrily. “The count keeps me too busy. I expect our energetic young contessa keeps you rather busy as well.”
I smiled, enjoying the pretense, and grateful that he did not inquire directly after my husband. “That would be an understatement. And are you from Rome?”
“Of that I am uncertain,” he replied. “I was orphaned.”
“Such a coincidence! I am, too.”
Our gazes met as we laughed, knowing we shared a secret no one else in the room would ever guess. We made amiable if meaningless conversation as we ate; I yearned to speak frankly to him, to ask him more about his friendship with Matteo, but one of Girolamo’s bookkeepers sat down beside us to eat his dinner.
After we finished eating, I deemed it too hot and stuffy to join the few sweating dancers. We took our wine out onto the deserted balcony, lit by a single torch, to enjoy the view of the night-shrouded gardens behind the palazzo. As I placed a hand upon the stone railing and peered down into the darkness, wondering awkwardly what I would say next, Luca began speaking.
“I first met Matteo six years ago, when Sixtus was elected,” he said softly, his unfocused gaze directed outward, like mine. “I started working for His Holiness when he was still a cardinal. Later, when he was made pope and brought his nephews to Rome, I was assigned to Girolamo.
“But before I came to live in Rome, there was an enormous celebration when Sixtus was elected. Rulers from all over the world—including the contessa’s father, the Duke of Milan, and Lorenzo de’ Medici—came to pay their respects to the new pope. The staff was fed separately from the nobles, and I shared lunch with Matteo, among others, more than once. Neither of us dared speak to or of Lorenzo, of course, but I caught a look Matteo shared with His Magnificence, and realized they knew each other well. And so I set out to befriend Matteo.”
His voice grew even softer. “We never spoke about the Society”—he gave me a sidewise glance, to gauge my reaction—“or the secrets our masters entrusted to us. But we spoke about what it was like to grow up orphaned and receive the help of a wealthy benefactor. We talked about the homes that we knew, and our friends, and Matteo spoke a great deal—not about his wife, but his sister.”
Despite the heat, I balanced my goblet upon the railing and rubbed my upper arms, as if chilled.
Luca set down his own goblet—rather precariously, I thought, but I was far too captivated by his words to interrupt him as he continued. “Matteo described her remarkable goodness, intelligence, and beauty . . . and whispered of her uncanny talent for interpreting signs and portents.
“Of course, one can forgive a brother for exaggerating his sister’s attributes, as I assumed he did. But Madonna”—he turned his face toward mine—“now that I have had the incredible good fortune of meeting you in the flesh, I must say that his de
scriptions do not do you justice.”
I lifted my gaze from the dark gardens to look at him in surprise. Caught in the dim, flickering light from the torch, his expression was as intent and earnest as any I had ever seen. Here, I decided, was a man as good, as dedicated, and as brave as Matteo; my brother would never have revealed the fact that I was not his wife to any but the most trustworthy soul. I had not seen it before because Luca was amazingly skilled at keeping his emotions from registering on his face.
Now he did not hide them, and as I looked into his eyes and saw the timid but insistent affection there, I drew in a breath. When I released it, the world had shifted from a place of grief and evil to a haven of hope and grace.
I could have remained all night on the balcony speaking to Luca; I told him of my amazement over discovering that Matteo and I were related, of my grief over his death, of my hope to someday decipher the little diary, still in my possession. I mentioned my desire to live in Florence and my great disappointment at being ordered to go to Rome with Caterina. I said little of my meeting with the Medici, for I did not truly know the angel, and considered myself a fraud—a fact I did not want Luca to know, lest he realize that Matteo’s sister was not as perfect as he presumed.
After speaking his heart, Luca grew charmingly flustered, and at one point, gestured sweepingly as he spoke. His hand struck his brass goblet, still balanced uncertainly on the stone railing, and sent it clattering down to the courtyard below—not without first splattering both of us. My neck and décolletage were soaked, and I laughed gently as I took his proffered kerchief to dab at myself, a feat that could not be performed with any discretion, as the wine had quickly trickled down between my breasts.
We parted with me grinning and thoroughly won, and Luca roundly embarrassed. I could not, after all, remain all night. There was Caterina to worry about, and I had spent two hours instead of the quarter hour I’d planned at the banquet spoils.
The Scarlet Contessa Page 25
