Luffo Numai, whose loyalty had wavered in the first days after Girolamo’s murder but grew stronger the instant it became clear the Orsi had no military backing, presented Caterina and her family with a lavish feast. In fact, Numai was so desperate to ensure that he stood in the contessa’s good graces that he fed us for the rest of the week, and remained physically close to Caterina, offering his services at every opportunity he could be of use. Caterina tolerated him—Numai had the hearts and ears of the people—while I remained busy just avoiding Ser Luffo’s lecherous clutches.
As for the Palazzo Riario, Caterina refused to set foot in it again; the slaughter of her husband reminded her all too much of her father’s bloody end. Instead, the bounty from the conspirators’ estates allowed her to create a lavish apartment in Ravaldino’s highest tower, where she lived and slept and stored all her valuables. She was determined not to lose what possessions she had again, and most certainly determined never to put herself and her children in mortal danger. Wherever possible, the windows opened onto a panoramic view of the tranquil Apennine Mountains. My lady took great joy in furnishing the apartment with items that did not remind her of Girolamo or the lost glory of Rome. “For once,” she told me, “I have a sanctuary truly my own.”
“A paradise,” I murmured.
A curious light came into her eyes; she smiled at me. “Paradise it is.” And from that time on, we never referred to the apartment by any other name.
Years of relative peace followed, during which time Caterina’s daughter, Bianca, grew into a beautiful young woman, and Ottaviano and his younger brother Cesare grew into youths. When she pleased, Caterina took lovers, none of whom truly had her heart. This provoked rumors that spread swiftly across the Romagna. Ludovico of Milan wrote stern letters, saying that such scandalous conduct was exposing Caterina not only to public shame, but also to the loss of her properties, since she answered to her overlord, the pope.
Caterina spat on the letter after reading it, and ground it under her heel. “I am discreet,” she stormed, “while my uncle carries on with mistresses in public, under his wife’s nose! Does he think I am less of a Sforza than he? That because I am a woman, I dare not love whom I wish, even though I, too, was born to rule?”
She answered him politely, of course, telling him not to believe such vile rumors, and proceeded to take whomever she wished to her bed.
The year 1492 brought much bad news. In April, Lorenzo de’ Medici of Florence died too soon, at the age of forty-three; he had suffered from crippling gout, which left him disfigured and in agony until it finally weakened his kidneys and heart. Less sad, but more important, Pope Innocent VIII died in late July, from a more mysterious cause.
The latter tidings left Caterina troubled; she could confide only in me, for no one else knew of her real relationship with Cardinal Borgia, who would certainly fight hard for the papacy.
“If he becomes pope . . .” she said on one difficult night, when she had called me to her bed to sleep beside her; I did not need to ask of whom she spoke. “If he becomes pope, he can do whatever he wishes with me.”
“It was a long time ago, Madonna,” I answered, with feigned unconcern. “He has forgotten everything by now; he must be sixty years old, at the least.”
She sighed. “I wish I were in Rome.” At my gasp of astonishment, she continued, “Oh, I realize it’s a madhouse there until someone is elected. But I’ve had no letter from Giuliano della Rovere for too long now.”
“He is the most powerful cardinal in Rome,” I countered truthfully. “Surely he will get the tiara this time.”
Caterina stared up at the ceiling. “He should. He’s as crafty as Borgia, and far richer.”
“Whatever happens, you have Cardinal della Rovere on your side in Rome, and your uncle Ascanio, who has as much chance as anyone of becoming pope,” I said. The youngest of Galeazzo’s brothers, Ascanio was made a cardinal and sent to Rome, so that he could spy for Milan as well as represent her interests. “Or perhaps,” I added lightly, “none of them will be elected, and we’ll be surprised again.”
At that, she gave a short laugh. “You’re probably right.”
On the eleventh of August 1492, Rodrigo Borgia ascended to the throne of Peter and took for himself the name Alexander VI. Although Giuliano della Rovere had received two hundred thousand ducats from the King of France and half that from Genoa, it was not enough to defeat the Spanish cardinal. Della Rovere was furious, and publicly charged that Borgia had bribed Ascanio Sforza with four mule-loads of silver; other cardinals spoke out similarly, and Lorenzo’s son, the young Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici, called Borgia a “rapacious wolf.”
Caterina was devastated; all my reassurances that her uncle Ascanio would have Borgia’s ear and would protect her went ignored. Yet even as she fretted, she set about taking advantage of Cardinal Ascanio Sforza’s newfound prestige by having him make arrangements for her second son, Cesare, to enter the priesthood, with the thought of someday sending him to Rome.
The contessa was not the only one to be deeply troubled by Borgia’s election. Luca, who had been oddly restless ever since his master’s death, seemed despondent as well.
When I approached him on the subject one evening after supper in Paradise, he folded his arms and stepped away from me to gaze out the window at the distant Apennines. Half his face was painted by shadows, which fell in such a way as to sculpt his remaining features handsomely. After a time, he said quietly, “You are the one who sees the future, not I. Don’t you sense the coming scourge? There is talk of the French invading Italy; it would be the perfect excuse for Borgia to send papal troops marching through the Romagna. He is an evil man, Dea, more wicked than either you or the contessa know. I am not easily scandalized; I do not care that he has brought his natural children to live with him in the Vatican, or that his new mistress is almost fifty years his junior. But . . .”
I moved to him and, thinking to dispel the darkness in his expression, teased one of his hands from him and kissed it. “There’s nothing we can do but wait for evil to come. When it does, we can deal with it bravely. Until then . . .”
He did not take my hand, as he always did, but instead let it lie limply in my grasp. “There are things I can do.”
I laughed gently. “What things?”
He did not smile. “I have not spoken much of them, but when I went to Rome, my purpose was to help Girolamo.”
“Of course,” I said. “You were his scribe. And Lorenzo needed the information only you could provide.”
Luca shook his head. “I’m not speaking of my ostensible mission, although that, too, was important. I tried, through my actions and words, to lead Girolamo gently toward his true self. Dea, you know what I’m speaking of. You do the same for Caterina.”
“I . . .” I lowered my face so that he could not see my shame. “If you’re speaking of the angel, I told you before . . .” My voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know him. I’m still a fraud.”
Luca tilted his head sadly. “After all these years, you still haven’t given up your hatred for Matteo’s murderer? Oh, Dea, how you suffer unnecessarily.” His hand finally found mine, and drew me to him; he lowered his forehead until it touched mine. His breath was warm upon my cheeks. “But you have not abused your talent to find the killer?”
I shook my head.
“You do not know how close you are to your angel, Dea . . . but one step away. And your behavior toward Caterina, the effect you have had on her over the years . . . whether you know it or not, you are doing the work you’re supposed to be doing.”
I tensed in his embrace. “And what was Matteo’s work, then? To suffer before dying young? His death, his sacrifice . . . those must have been for nothing then, because his master, the Duke of Milan, remained a monster up until the moment of his death.”
“Then perhaps he was not in Milan to help Duke Galeazzo,” Luca countered gently. “Perhaps he was there to help you.”
I dr
ew back from our embrace to stare at him. “Of course Matteo helped me,” I agreed. “He looked after me, protected me from being married off to a horrible man. But his death did not help me.”
Luca said nothing, but steadily held my gaze.
“It was meaningless and terrible and cruel,” I said. Yet I began to consider what had happened to me in those awful days just after Matteo died. He had directed me to his private papers and the rituals to invoke the angel; he had sent me to Florence to meet the Medici, where I learned about our past and more about the angel, and received my mother’s triumph cards. I had come close to knowing the angel then, but my all-consuming desire to avenge my brother’s death held me back. And it had been all too easy, once I was saddled with looking after Caterina, to lose myself for years just trying to make sure she survived.
“It was terrible and cruel,” Luca said, “but it will only become meaningless if you allow it to.”
I pressed a hand to my brow, overwhelmed. “What am I then to do?” I whispered.
Luca dropped his hold upon my waist and took a small step backward. “It is not my place to tell you what you already know, Dea.” He stiffened, and it was as though a chill breeze replaced all the warmth he had just lavished on me.
“I only know,” he said, “that I am needed elsewhere. Just where, I do not yet know. But my heart leads me.”
“I cannot leave Caterina!” I protested.
His expression grew wistfully sad. “On that,” he said, “we are unfortunately both agreed.”
“Oh, Luca!” I moved forward to seize his hands again. “You cannot leave me! I could not bear it!”
“Nor I,” he whispered as a spasm of grief passed over his features; he recovered himself quickly and pressed my palms, one at a time, to his lips. “Not yet, not yet,” he promised. “There is still time, Dea. If you think on it, I know you will come to understand.”
Tearfully, I said, “But you will come back to me?”
“Yes,” he vowed. “Yes, I will come back, as soon as my work is done.”
I broke down and sobbed into his shoulder. He led me away from the public rooms and curious eyes, to our little bedroom in Paradise, joined to Caterina’s chamber by a spiral staircase. There I spent the night clinging to him until dawn.
Two months passed. Luca and I never spoke of the matter again, nor did either of us mention it to Caterina, who would certainly refuse to let Luca desert me without adequate explanation.
During a night I spent with Caterina—who had been frightened again by nightmares of her father and Girolamo dying bloodily—I chanced, in the early hours of the morning, to hear stealthy footsteps on the stairs; a few moments later, there came the sound of hoofbeats galloping away from the stables. Caterina was dozing, so I rose and stole down to the room I had shared with Luca, making sure to leave the staircase door open so that my lady could call for me without getting up to ring the bell.
Down below, the bed I shared with Luca was made, the room clean, the lamp on the night table lit. I was just about to open the wardrobe to see what was missing when I spotted the letter upon my pillow.
My beloved,
It grieves my heart to leave you, and I know, all too keenly, it does yours as well. But I go knowing it is for the best. There is work I must accomplish, in a city I must not name, and it is likely that I will not be able to contact you for some time—many months at least, and perhaps longer. Only know that I am always your faithful, loving husband, and that I will return to you as quickly as I am able.
How I love you.
Forever your faithful servant,
Luca
I came undone. There, upon our little mattress beneath Caterina’s grand bedchamber, I clutched the letter to my chest and sobbed so loudly that the contessa was roused and, receiving no reply to her shouted questions, climbed down the stairs and found me.
I did not have the presence of mind to hide the letter or to make up lies about Luca’s reasons for leaving; I was so lost in sorrow that I only vaguely noticed that Caterina tore the paper from my hand and read it herself, that she tried to pull my hands from my face to speak to me, that she gave up and sat beside me, her arms about my shoulders.
When I had calmed enough to catch my breath, Caterina withdrew her embrace and smoothed the letter out upon her knee.
“The bastard!” she said softly. “How dare he hurt you so! He seemed such a kindly, sensible sort. I’m of a mind to hunt him down and—”
Wisely, she left the rest unsaid, and her tone became more practical. She pointed to a phrase in the letter. “ ‘Work I must accomplish, in a city I must not name’ . . . Dea, he is a spy!”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand it,” I said tremulously, but my lady was not fooled.
“You’ve never lied to me before,” Caterina stated flatly, “and I must say that you’re very bad at it.” She faced me with a sympathetic yet unyielding stare. “For whom does he spy? Where are his loyalties?”
“To the Riario, of course,” I said feebly, but was too exhausted, too angry, too heartbroken to prevail, and I knew it.
So did Caterina. “I have always put more trust in you than anyone else in this world. Do not betray me.”
I drew a breath and closed my eyes, so that everything I saw in the little room would not remind me of Luca; even blind, I could still smell iron-gall ink.
“He has always been loyal to the Riario, and to you, Madonna,” I said without opening my eyes, “but he was loyal first to his benefactor, Lorenzo de’ Medici, who rescued him from the orphanage and educated him.”
“Lorenzo,” Caterina breathed respectfully. Despite her husband’s vicious hatred of the Medici, the Lady of Forlì had always admired Lorenzo. But her tone hardened. “So he was a spy for the Medici,” she said.
I nodded. “He warned Lorenzo that Girolamo was plotting to kill him.”
She lifted the paper between her thumb and forefinger and held it up, a warning. “Had he not brought back such a great army from Milan, I would not trust him. I would send men after him, to hunt him down.”
I finally looked at her. “He is good-hearted, Madonna. He means well. Please don’t ever think—”
“I won’t,” she said, “if you will tell me for whom he works now. The hapless Piero de’ Medici, Lorenzo’s son? Or someone else? My uncle Ludovico?” A look of pure hatred flickered in her eyes. “God forbid, Borgia?”
“He would never work for the likes of Borgia!” I answered hotly. “Luca was as distraught as you when Borgia claimed the tiara. If anything, he has gone to work against him!”
“Wherever he has gone,” she said, “his work must be dangerous, or he would have taken you.”
Tears threatened again; I swallowed hard. “He told me he would leave, but he would not say when.”
Caterina stiffened. “You knew and you did not tell me?”
I shook my head guiltily. “I did not. Forgive me.”
At that, she scowled and rose indignantly beside me. “How long have you known that he was leaving?”
“Two months.” I peered cautiously up at her; her eyes were bright with anger. “I wanted to go with him, of course, but we both knew . . . I told him, so he knew . . .” I paused, overwhelmed by emotion.
“Say it!” she snapped.
“That I could never leave you. My place is here, with you, always.” I turned to face her directly. “I have read my own cards, Madonna. Like you, my future is the Tower. I will never desert you. I hope that you have always known that.”
The anger drained from her so swiftly that she sat down heavily beside me. “Oh, Dea!” she murmured, blinking rapidly, and put a hand to her throat. I expected her to embrace me again; instead, she spat upon Luca’s letter, then crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room.
“Stinking weasel!” she shouted at it, as though it were Luca himself standing before us. “Miserable son of a whore! I will not forget your transgression against me, against your beautiful wife! When
you return, I will throw you into the soldiers’ latrine! I will make Marta use your head to scrub the chamber pots! No one dares break the heart of the Lady of Forlì’s sister!”
Sister, she called me.
With that, she threw her arms about me and kissed my cheek; uncomfortable with her own display of emotion, she lifted her skirts and hurried up the stairs.
When she had gone, I picked up Luca’s letter and carefully wiped the spittle away before smoothing it out and placing it beneath my pillow.
Chapter Thirty
Months passed, and Luca did not return, nor did I receive a letter from him, though twice a folded, sealed piece of paper was delivered to Ravaldino by a street urchin, who could not describe the mysterious courier who gave it him.
Twice, I broke the seal in an agony of expectation, and twice read the single line, written in Luca’s carefully even script: Know that I love you and think of you always.
I was desperately glad to read such words, even though they reopened the wound his departure had inflicted on me. Caterina tolerated my mournful visage and sighs without a word.
The Scarlet Contessa Page 40
