It is said that Colomba never stirs from prayer during the lightened hours except to heal those brought before her and indeed, that is how we found her, at prayer in the small chapel. Though I had little faith in the miracles attributed to her intercession, I confess that the sight of her countenance filled my spirit with unaccustomed reverence. The contrast between her white tunic and the black hood created an artificial shadow wherein the beauty of her pale face and gray eyes was extraordinary to behold. At first, she appeared simple, one of the blessed souls who exist in a type of perpetual innocence no matter the years they attain, and she moved through the decades of the rosary with a placid expression that never wavered.
Her keeper, Fra Sebastiano, approached, and called her name. Columba started and clutched at the wood beneath the bench as she turned and beheld us. The attitude of her body then utterly changed, shifting as it did into a dance, head lolling to the side, following the flow of her shoulders. When she opened her eyes again, the genial expression had gone, and there was something inexplicably older in her gaze, and harsher, and it looked upon me with a sternness that carried with it the edge of a blade. She gestured with a hand, eyes fixed on mine, and Fra Sebastiano and Baglioni withdrew. My feet approached, eager to discern what mysteries the Dove could reveal.
Her gaze raked me, turning the skin of my hands and face into ice and prickles of fire. When she spoke, it was a croak removed from the still and hesitant sound of the Ave Maria that I had heard earlier. "Generalissimo," she said, inclining her head in a bow, the words in our native Catalan, and my start of surprise would have brought the watchers forward, but I waved them back, eager to hear all of her words. She continued in the same tongue, tilting her head to the side. "How far you rise and how far you fall, Generalissimo, like a leaf caught in the storm. Ambition and love are to you a curse, but in the end, you will lie beneath men's feet for half a thousand years or more."
After she had spoken the last word, a disturbance sounded from the courtyard. Columba turned from me as the doors were thrown open and a man clutching a child of four or five years rushed inside, throwing himself at the sister’s feet. The story spilled from his lips in a torrent, his only child, the mother dead of fever a year before, and only Columba could heal her from the sickness that had driven the life from her body.
The strange harshness of face that troubled me fled and Columba became again as she had been at prayer, serene. Kneeling over the child, she began to pray. At the end of the Ave Maria, she hovered over the child and breathed out. Though it may have been an illusion of the light, it seemed to me that the radiance of gold passed from between her lips and was withdrawn into the still blue lips of the girl and was consumed. A moment later, the child's flesh was seen to regain color, the motions of her chest beginning again like the bellows at a forge.
Doubtless, the learned doctors will say that the child was healed only through the grace of God working through the body of a weak woman or that it was a faint, and no true death. I only know that her words that day have burned themselves into my flesh, and I can feel them there, like a scar. I wonder at their meaning.
But be at peace, my good sister, though I am not, knowing that you always remain in the thoughts of one who loves you more than he loves himself,
Cesare Borgia
Chapter 9
The ball rolled across the tiles, bouncing gently off her hand as she moved the brush back and forth across the tiles. Without dropping the brush, Betta scooped up the ball and set it hurtling back across the loggia. There was a giggle, then the sound of quick footsteps, the ping of wooden heels.
"How did a horse find its way up here?" Betta wondered. "The noise will burst my ears."
Another giggle sounded, and soft hands covered her eyes, blocking out the dull autumn light flooding the passage. Over the scent of the soap and the leaves beginning to turn brown upon the trees, an exotic perfume lingered, a light floral scent overlain with decadent spices.
"Guess who?"
Betta pursed her lips and blew out an exaggerated breath so that it tickled the hands covering her eyes. "My brother Franco, who smells of tanning leather."
"I certainly do not!"
Betta pretended to think although she had known of Lady Lucrezia’s visit from the moment the litter had stopped outside the door.
"It must be the Lady Lucrezia, then. I heard angels singing as she walked through the door."
Lucrezia giggled, settling herself down on the stoop as she watched Betta go about her duties. An hour remained before Lucrezia was set to return to the Palazzo; she sat, carefully draped in shadows as she watched Betta work. Her skin, Lucrezia had confided, was no longer allowed to feel the bright rays of the sun. Though she had run free as a young child, the white pallor of gentle breeding gained increasing importance as she neared marriageable age, and a tendency to freckle would be no advantage as her father sought a suitable alliance.
"Will you marry soon?" Betta asked.
A line appeared between the smooth, pale brows that faded into insignificance behind the white skin.
"In three years, when I turn thirteen. When I begin to..." Lucrezia lowered her voice to a whisper. "Bleed."
Betta nodded, turning her head back to the tiles.
"Papa hopes that I will grow big breasts like Giulia, then all the men will want to marry me, and he will make a better match. Do you think I will?"
"What?"
"Grow big breasts. I am beautiful, though not as beautiful as Giulia, but I am afraid that Papa will marry me off to that merchant from Aragon with big ears unless I grow breasts." She scowled, looking down at the bodice which bore no trace of a curve. A tone of anxiety threaded through the words, and Betta wondered at the conversations Lady Lucrezia had been allowed to overhear. She leaned forward and lowered her voice.
"My mother says big breasts are for cows."
When they had done laughing, quietly behind their hands so the sound would not carry, Lucrezia began to speak of lighter matters, her dancing lessons, and tutors, the dowry her father was assembling for her. Happily involved in chattering, she did not notice when a door opened; a shadow appeared in the doorway, the form tall and slender. Betta glanced up, careful that the scrutiny was concealed beneath the sweep of her hair.
A young man in green and brown leathers was stealing through the halls, keeping to the shadows. When the sun touched his face, it looked amused and affectionate as he stepped forward on silent feet toward the girl who sat on the stair.
Still speaking, Lucrezia did not hear him. "And Papa says that I am to have a new gown for the Feast of the Assumption, silver tissue with Florentine brocade picked out with seed pearls..."
Catching Betta's eye, the young man winked and lay a finger on his lips. A flock of birds were singing as they passed overhead, and a drover and cart rolled by outside the gate. The lowing of the oxen and their stamping feet sounded through the thick walls.
Betta bent to her task, pressing her mouth tight to keep from smiling.
"My tutors continue to wail over my progress in sums. What use are sums? After I marry, I shall have a secretary to work out my sums and write my letters..."
The figure inched closer on the tiles, the soft pads of his boots making no noise.
"Papa says that when he has chosen my husband...."
Lucrezia stopped her chatter on an intake of breath as a hand touched her shoulder. A confused look stole over her features. Then she smiled, and her eyes lit with emotion. "Cesare!" In a leap, she rose, twisting and flinging herself into the arms of the one who had stolen up like a cat behind. He caught the leaping form, lifting until their shoulders were even and she could twine her legs around his waist.
"Princessa!" he laughed, squeezing her into a hug that interrupted her raining kisses on his face. A hand ruffled the curls of her hair.
Lucrezia was laughing and sobbing, burying her face into his neck so that her hair trembled like golden snakes. Her hands caught the buckles and laces of his
hunting garb and held tight with a white-knuckled grasp. She was a flurry of linen and ribbons, legs scrambling for a tighter hold, exposed her knees.
"Cesare." The word sounded like a prayer, whispered against his neck. "My Cesare."
"No tears, little sister. This is a happy day." Leather parted as he lifted her, displaying a lean stomach corded with muscles.
Betta bent over the tiles, burningly aware that her cheeks were scarlet. The bishop of Valencia was beautiful, like an angel in a painting, though there was something about his face that spoke of earthlier pleasures. Auburn whiskers traced his jaw, emphasizing high cheekbones and sculpted lips that would have done a maiden proud. Their faces were the same, Betta realized. Though the Bishop was dark to Lady Lucrezia's fair-skinned beauty, they were mirror images cast in a different metal.
Bending his head, Cesare pressed a firm kiss against a cheek wet with tears, and for a moment, the amusement fell from his face; the look was tender and somehow sad, as though he saw something beautiful for the first time. Betta tore her gaze away, flushing. She knew herself an intruder, watching an intimacy.
"You will never leave for so long again," Lucrezia said, her voice still muffled against his neck. "I forbid it."
"As my Queen commands."
Betta sneaked another look at them, only to find the light hazel eyes were now regarding her. The gaze surprised her; she had grown used to being invisible. "And whose ear have you been chattering off in my absence?"
Lucrezia lifted her head from his neck and rubbed her nose against his cheek. She sniffed, then wrinkled her nose. "Boar?"
He nodded.
"I hope you brought some for me. And this is Betta. She is my same age, Cesare. Betta, come and meet my brother."
Betta rose from her knees and curtsied. "Your Grace." To her shame, the words emerged as a squeak.
His lips tightened, suppressing a smile that showed in his eyes, dancing with little golden lights. He held Lucrezia easily, supporting her weight as though it were nothing, nor did he show any sign of relinquishing her. "An onerous duty, listening to this magpie while scrubbing. I shall relieve you of some of your burdens. Come, Lucrezia, our mother bids you attend her."
As he turned to leave, Betta noticed for the first time a shadow which freed itself from the wall and turned to follow. It was a tall man, broad-shouldered with a fall of dark red, slightly curling hair which brought to mind the beautiful bright curls of her sister, Ginevra. As he moved to follow the bishop, his eyes lingered on her face for a moment, assessing.
He was not a handsome man, Betta thought, not in the way of Cesare Borgia, and yet something was striking about him that was better than being pleasing to look upon. The nose jutting out from the plane of his face was hooked, and beneath the short beard, a deep cleft in his chin drew her eyes. Betta cocked her head, looking at him more closely, trying to think of what it was that made it difficult to look away from. Betta narrowed her eyes as the answer began whispering through her thoughts. Strength…but also something else. He put her in mind of the great cats that some nobles kept as pets, predators accustomed to stalking the dark. The image of him as a cat seemed fitting, and it supplied the other word that had been searching for. Dangerous. This was a man to be feared.
The man had noticed her scrutiny. It paused him in mid-step, and the face which held only boredom shifted when she did not look away, continuing to look at him in a moment that stretched on and on until her eyes began to tear, telling her that she must blink, only she would not, could not look away from him. One side of his mouth lifted as he studied her, and the shock of it had her blinking and looking down, color staining her cheeks. He took a step closer, black boots trailing dust and horse hair across her freshly cleaned floor. It made her scowl, annoyed that he would have ruined an afternoon of labor without a thought. Something changed in his expression when they locked eyes for the second time. It grew sharper, making the breath catch in her throat.
“Micheletto!” The archbishop’s voice cut through the heavy silence which was growing between them. Without another word, the man turned, disappearing into the darkened hallway. Betta expelled the breath that she had not realized she was holding. She felt anxious, as though she had run a long race, and hoped that he would not come again.
Chapter 10
“I have a secret,” the young man said, drawing the tips of his fingers through the candle flame slowly, letting the soot collect on the tips. The pain did not bother him. For as long as he could remember, the things that caused others pain, falls and scrapes and even scattered teeth, were no more than a gentle throbbing he could easily ignore, the feeling muted. It was only when the flesh on his fingertips began to bubble that he ceased, sticking the blistered digits into his wine and then sucking them off.
“A secret, my lord?” the girl on her knees said, looking up from her work. She had fair hair, almost golden. The sight of it spread across his thighs as she pleasured him brought a stab of pleasure to his loins far stronger than the workings of her tongue had produced. Blonde hair, wide eyes; it made him want to hurt her, to pull her to the floor and wrap his hands around her throat and thrust into her cunt until all the world ceased buzzing behind his eyes.
The boy twisted a handful of her hair around his fist and yanked, drawing a pained cry from the whore’s lips. “Did I tell you to cease?” he barked, pulling until the strands began to give way.
She began to cry, great snuffling sobs as she placed her hands on her scalp and pressed, trying to preserve the hair. “No, my lord.”
He was hard now, hard to bursting. Keeping ahold of the girl’s hair, he forced her back toward his cock, mashing her face against the engorged organ. “I’ll tell you when to stop,” he said, his voice falling to a groan when hot tears joined the wet slide of her mouth, the frantic movements of her hands. Too good, he thought, wanting to tell her to slow so that he could pull her hair again, hear the desperate cries around his cock and the hot tears as they joined her slobber. Too good. He opened his eyes, meaning to tell her to slow, but the candles he had left burning on the table near the fire illuminated the girl’s hair, turning it to butter yellow curls.
The climax came in a great scalding rush, choking the girl whose neck he held in an iron grasp, forcing her to take every inch down her throat. The whore’s movements became frantic as she fought to breathe, driving his pleasure deeper until the last throbs spent themselves in a rush that dribbled out from either side of her lips.
Spent, he let the girl go, watching through glazed eyes as she fell back, a tumble of patched linen skirts and disheveled hair, white falling from the corners of her mouth in a steady stream of droplets. Anger flared in her expression; he wondered if she would strike at him. He hoped that she would. Teaching the little whore her place would be another pleasure. Perhaps he would fuck her again. Three times in one night was nothing for someone of his stamina.
“Something to say?” he taunted, hoping, wanting her to act.
The whore lifted her chin. Though close to his age, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years, he saw a glint of silver in the light hair she brushed back with a trembling hand. She flexed her jaw, moving it to the side before answering.
“Else I can do for you, my lord?”
“More wine,” he answered, not bothering to hide his disappointment as she left to fetch another jug from the kitchen. It hardly mattered, he consoled himself. Women were a pleasure of the moment. The next day, the next night, would bring another.
The whore returned, bringing wine to replace the almost empty jug. He dismissed her with a wave, knowing his chamberlain would see to her fee; he poured himself another taza of wine, the pulpy remnants of the jug emerging with the last drops, spilling onto his hand. Unconcerned about the stain on his linen, he lifted the hand to his mouth and licked it clean, savoring the tang against his tongue. The last drop was sour. He liked that, the taste that truly made him feel that he was drinking.
The jug of wine he had just finished was not
his first, nor even his second of the day. Were he an ordinary man, he would be slumped under the table, asleep. But he was no normal man, and the wine did not affect him. Very little affected him. In his quiet moments, he wondered at that, that the things which commanded such a hold over most men held such little sway over him. But he had other pleasures. Secrets were his wine, his salt and spices and the warm flesh of new whores — secrets and vengeance against those who had wronged him.
One secret above all else was precious to him, the jewel of his collection. He had learned it years past, the night before his brother had left for the Sapienza. Those who made their rooms on the second stories of houses made little effort to curb their tongues when they thought themselves alone. He had learned many interesting things when he began to climb outside of his window at night, balancing on ledges down to the streets and finding his way through the city by the light of the stars. If he had not already been set on a course of greatness, he thought he might have made a skilled burglar.
Such things he had learned! Love affairs and debts, his father’s silliness over the golden-haired whore. And of course, his greatest secret learned at the home of his mother.
“Does he know?” The pain in his brother’s voice had been delicious, a cooling vintage on his tongue after a long day.
“He suspects.”
He giggled, pleasure flooding him at the knowledge of what revealing his secret would mean. And he would tell, someday soon, when the moment was ripe. Until then, he would wait and watch, a lion stalking a deer. He smiled — strands of light brown hair were still trapped in his fingers, wrapping around them in a lover’s embrace. Holding his hand over the flame once more, he watched as the strands caught fire, burning to ash.
Servant to the Borgia Page 5
