“And what have you discovered, brother?”
“The truth of who you are. Did you think it would remain a secret for long? I heard the truth of your parentage from our sweet mother’s lips the night you were to leave for Perugia.” The light grew in his eyes, triumph and madness blended into one, the cunning of a wolf. “And I have learned other things as well. The plot my friend revealed to me, and other matters closer to your heart,” he gestured to Berenger, who was swaying back and forth in his chair. “The night she visited you in your rooms, so far away from the stink of Rome. It was careless of you to leave the bedsheets about where any might discover them. What would our father say, were I to tell him?”
“You are mad to say such things,” Cesare said flatly, and turned to his cousin. “Forgive his lack of courtesy, your Eminence. Doubtless, it was the strenuous nature of the conflict with the Orsini which has disordered his wits, that he would insult our mother so in her own home.”
“Think nothing of it.” Juan Borja-Llancol demurred, though his eyes never left Juan, simmering with anger in his chair.
A commotion caused a disturbance in their conversation. At the open door of the kitchens, a line of pages held platters of newly carved roast pork, long pale slabs of flesh glistening and pink. Cellarers and pages crowded near the door carrying wine and cheese, cakes, bread, steaming pots of sauce scented with garlic and herbs from the gardens.
Gratefully, Vannozza waved them forward, and the feast was served.
Chapter 61
For a frozen moment, Betta stood and watched the fire scuttling along the knotted threads of the tapestry, charring the gaily dressed men and women as they danced through a forest in pursuit of a unicorn. She could hear Pantasilea’s footsteps receding into the distance as she raced down the stairs. If she left now, she could catch her; Pantasilea would never triumph in a footrace. But the women who sought refuge from the outside world in the quiet shelter of the convent had been kind to her, despite her sporadic attendance at mass. She could not let them suffer.
Pulling the tapestry from the walls, she laid it on the bare stone of the floor. The center of the hanging was consumed by flames, spreading out as the oil from the lamp soaked through the cloth. Water would do no good; Master Bartolomeo spoke in her memory, lecturing his apprentice as he bound up a burn, smoothing butter over fiery skin. Smother an oil burn, foolish boy, never water, that will only make it spread.
Looking around, Betta could see nothing that could be used to smother the fire. The room was filling with smoke, making her cough. There was no sand, no ash, only… Ignoring the pain in her hands from where the fire licked her palm, she began lifting the corner of the tapestry, struggling to fold the fabric in upon itself, layering heavy fabric upon heavy fabric until the crackle of orange flames had ceased, and all that was left was a smoldering heap of charred threads in the smoke-darkened room.
Betta coughed, feeling the burn in her chest. Shouts of alarm sounded from the cloister- the smoke pouring from the windows had been seen. The nuns would soon arrive, and the porters, carrying heavy buckets of sand. The nuns and her lady were safe.
Spinning on her heels, Betta flew down the stairs. Pantasilea was so far ahead of her that she could not even hear footsteps or see her in the distance, but as she rounded the corner into the garden, she saw that the guard was running toward the cloister.
“Fire!” he panted, pointing up to the tower which showed black against the evening sky. The smell of it was in the air, the silk and velvet flames burning the inside of her nose. The center of her chest was still tight from the smoke.
Betta caught his arm. Her headlong flight down the stairs and to the garden had left her breathless. “Pantasilea?” she wheezed. “Where?”
His brow furrowed, and he tried to pull away. “Who? There’s a fire I say, best you…” his voice trailed off as a massive billow of white smoke emerged from the window followed by the sound of women singing. A relieved smile stretched the guard’s mouth.
”That’s all right then, isn’t it?” He looked down as though expecting her to agree.
He would be of no help. Betta released his arms and began running forward, skirts flapping around her legs. “Girl went towards the river,” he called as she crossed the gate.
Saying a silent prayer, Betta turned toward the path that edged between overhanging trees towards the river.
The wind whipped the branches overhead; a hot, summer wind, it brought with it the scents of the city, the dust of the ancient roads, open sewers, sweat, and pine. Betta increased her speed, winging along the slabs of stone until they flowed into one before her eyes, an iron-gray river; there was nothing but the coolness of the shadows beneath her feet and the warm breath of the city caressing her face.
Marco had taught her to run. Her blond brother, angel-voiced and sweet her brother had been, the son of another father, but it did not matter, he was gone, living only in her memory, one of the ghosts that rode on her shoulders. Faster, her mother whispered, and her speed increasing until she flew down the path like a deer. Smell, Master Bartolomeo reminded her, and touch. A hint of it still lingered on the air, expensive rosewater leading her forward, tracking as though she were a hound, after prey. And to kill when it was needed. Micheletto had taught her that, and Bernaldino, but it was not a lesson that could be learned, like needlework or the creation of a sumptuous dish. It rose up from a place deep inside, undiscovered until the moment of action.
A touch of white, the billow of a skirt fleeing ahead. Betta increased her speed and ran.
Chapter 62
The sounds mellowed as night approached, easing under the twin delights of wine and prepared delicacies. Though Juan could not refrain from stabbing verbal thrusts, hinting at his brother’s crimes, the other attendants seemed determined to enjoy the feast.
Every incident caused their mother’s shoulders to tense. Cesare could see the strain that the evening was placing on her. Deep circles were forming underneath her eyes, and she reached again and again for the wine jar, finding solace in it.
Finally, Cesare could stand it no longer. Rising from the chair, he signaled to the page. “Bring my horse around. The hour grows late, and I would return to the city before nightfall.”
“Mine as well,” Juan said. He listed in the chair, head leaning against the back so that the weakness of his chin was exposed, covered with dark whiskers.
As they waited, Cesare crossed to his mother’s chair and embraced her, wrapping his arms around her bulk. She had always been beautiful to him, his mother, the wisest woman he had ever known; she had taught him much, how to plan, how to see the strengths and weakness of others and exploit them. And love. She had never failed to show him love, though he little deserved it.
“My apologies, if this evening is not as you planned it.”
Reaching up, she touched his face. “They seldom are.” There was such weariness in her tone that his heart clenched.
Juan left the arbor after a slight bow in his mother’s direction and contented himself with verbally lashing the stable boy who had been unable to render his horse fit to receive his weight.
“A cracked hoof, my lord,” he groveled, pulling at his hair as he bowed and twisting his hands into knots. “Days and days before he’s fit to ride again.”
Juan surveyed the boy as though he spoke another particularly unpleasant language. “Bring another horse.”
“None to be had, my lord, unless you’d prefer…” he glanced at the troupe of men surrounding Cesare. Already, his cousin made as if to slide from the saddle.
“No,” he bit off. “I have not the time to pick through them. Bring the jennet. My companion can ride behind.”
They rode together through the streets. Juan seemed to have decided against further threats; instead, he traveled in silence. The jennet possessed a smooth, ambling gait characteristic of her breed, but the burden of two riders soon darkened her coat to black, and her breathing became labored.
At the Ponte St. Angelo, Juan pulled the horse to a stop. “We continue on alone from here.”
Cesare kept the relief from his voice. “Don’t be foolish, Juan. Whatever woman you plan to visit will wait until a troop of guards can accompany you. Only fools ride at night.”
“And only cowards hide behind other’s weapons.” Juan pulled at the horse’s reigns, halting her prancing movement. “This is my last warning, brother. Return my property, or my Father will know the tale. The entire tale.”
“Tell him, then, though I doubt any secret you have uncovered is unknown to a man as sagacious as the Holy Father.” Cesare returned, conscious of the eyes on him, the listening ears who could understand their Valencian words. “If the girl were precious to you, you would have done better to guard her closely. A thousand houses in Rome could shelter a young girl, or perhaps she has been taken from Rome and finds shelter in a villa like the one our mother owns. Give her up for lost, brother, and abandon any schemes that you had in mind to ensure her return. Something so precious is unlikely to ever be your possession again.”
“We shall see.” Spurring the jennet ahead, Juan disappeared down the street.
Cardinal Borja brought his horse alongside and watched the retreating form. A line had formed between his thick, dark brows. “He is mad.”
Cesare shook his head. “He is troubled. The time in Naples will serve to calm the fever of his mind.”
“May God ensure that it is so,” the Cardinal murmured. He slid a glance at Cesare. “Still, I think our family would have been served if Juan had been promised to the church, and you were free to lead its armies. The campaign against the Orsini…foolishness.”
Cesare said nothing, only pressed his lips tightly together.
“My king and queen are…displeased with your father’s actions of late. The time that your brother spent in Spain did nothing to add honor to the name of Borgia. And praising the Duke while spurning the accomplishments of Cordoba was badly done. They begin to listen to those that whisper of a Grand Council.”
Cesare kept his voice soft. “Are you among those who whisper?”
The Cardinal shook his head. “No, I am loyal to the Holy Father. The Borgia have risen in the years since Alonso came to Rome. Our name is known to all the Christian world, and the children of our line marry into the noblest of houses. We have prospered, therefore our family has much to lose. It would be a shame if our ruin was brought about by the actions of one foolish boy.”
“And yet, the Holy Father loves him, more than he loves his other children.” Cesare stilled the prancing horse with a touch, a murmured word. Behind them, the guards had begun to whisper, pointing to a running figure that was drawing nearer. Even from a great distance, Cesare recognized the massive shoulders of the captain he had placed in charge of those who guarded Sarifye in the house near San Sisto. He suppressed a smile. Leaving the events of tonight in place had been the correct course of action.
“The death of Pedro Luis was a tragedy from which your father never recovered. He was a true Borgia, fit to lead the family.”
“Perhaps another will emerge in time,” Cesare said, turning from his cousin to the man that stood panting next to them, red-faced from exertion. “Maximiliano. I trust all is well?”
The captain held up a hand as he struggled to catch his breath. Though the man was strong, able to lift the heaviest of burdens and fight for hours on end with unflagging zeal, his body was not made for speed.
“Eminence,” he panted. “You must…come.”
Clutching at the reigns, Cesare bent down, speaking softly, though still loud enough that they could be heard over the noise of the streets. “Is she well?”
The guard shook his head. “No, my lord.”
Finally able to stand upright, the guard took a step closer. His chest continued to heave, and he wiped a hand across wet lips. “She’s bleeding, your Eminence. Bad. The midwife, she said as how I needed to fetch you straight away, not waiting for a horse, for none of them were saddled, so I ran. And fortunate it was to find you here, without having to hunt you down in the city.”
“Fortunate, indeed.” Cesare drew up the reins in his hand. “Cousin, for your courtesy, give this man the use of your horse. Our family has further use for me this night.”
Chapter 63
Holiness,
The girl has sickened, and it is feared that the child will be expelled from her womb. Knowing the tender regard you hold for her, I shall remain at her side, seeing to her care in your absence.
C
Chapter 64
The smell of water cut through the fog of Betta’s thoughts, freeing her from the red haze of pain that had become her chest, gasping for breath, and her feet, the shoes torn to worn strips of leather.
She knew this place. There, on the other side of the river, was Trastevere, which had once been her home. The stone blocks that littered the ground, the remains of the ancient bridge which had fallen hundreds of years before, only to be replaced by the arching stone construction of the Ponte San Sisto. In the center of the bridge was a circular opening, through which the sky, now fully dark, could be seen.
Bending over, Betta clutched at her chest, feeling the stab of agony between her ribs. Her eyes searched the ground ahead. The banks to either side of the bridge were crowded with the twisting, top heavy-pines of Rome, needles ruffling with a metallic sound in the wind. Betta blinked away the moisture in her eyes, trying to focus, to see what should not be there, more than the beggars clustered beneath the stairs, the pitiful children who were mounds of rags, clinging to the warmth of the stones for comfort during the night. In winter, they would die, shriveled bodies tossed into the Tiber to carry them away from the heart of the city.
There. The flash of light hair near the stone foundation of the bridge. Betta crossed around the back of the bridge and began edging forward. Already, she could hear the maid’s labored breathing, see the way that her body was bent forward, clutching at her stomach. She began to run.
There was a noise from above the bridge, a whistling and the clop of a horse’s hooves. Pantasilea turned toward the sound, and her breath expelling in a massive sigh of relief that became a triumphant smile. In the brief flash of light from one of the torches overhead, her face was unbearably beautiful.
Taking half a dozen rapid strides, Betta sprang, knocking Pantasilea to the ground. They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and hair. Pantasilea raked with her nails, gouging skin from Betta’s arm and pulling at her hair. Betta did not return the blows. All that she wanted was the note still clutched in the maid’s hand. She elbowed the other maid in the throat, and when Pantasilea opened her mouth to gasp, Betta ripped it free.
Indecision halted her for a precious moment, frozen in the shadow of the bridge with Pantasilea still struggling for breath next to her. She had no idea what information the note held, what secrets Pantasilea would risk her life to obtain. There was no time to plan, to weigh the options. There were footsteps overhead. Kicking the maid off of her, Betta ran toward the River. The water was cold against her skin as she leaped forward, forcing herself through the current. It enveloped her hand as she opened her fist and felt the current take the parchment away.
A tremendous force knocked her sideways into the river, forcing her head beneath the water. Hands gripped her hair and something pressed against her back, holding her in place. Betta felt a moment’s panic as her body began to struggle for air, then she calmed, relaxing her body into a limp, unresponsive form. The grip on her hair slackened. At that moment, Betta twisted, locking her arms around the middle of her attacker’s body. They thrashed together in the water, rolling back and forth; Betta submerged again and felt her strength faltering when water entered her lungs in a foul rush. Fingers closed around her throat, pressing, digging. Shadows began to creep through to the edges of her vision. The other maid was stronger than she expected, driven on by hate and anger.
A leg connected with her thigh, and the press o
f leather digging in was enough to remind Betta that she was not defenseless. In the fury of their fight, she had forgotten the knives.
Betta brought her hands together and clawed at the billows of wool, searching and then finding the place where her sleeve was split. The knife was in her hands, familiar and comforting, filling her with renewed strength even as her mouth opened involuntarily, searching for air. She surged upward and felt Pantasilea’s hold on her throat loosen as the blade slid into her stomach, the sharpened tip parting the skin effortlessly. They were locked together in an embrace; the stars overhead shown in the girl’s eyes as she tilted her head upwards, mouth falling open in shock. Betta tried to withdraw the blade for another strike, but it was stuck, the tip wedged against bone.
Air, sweet, blessed air. Betta kicked the falling body away and stood, the water sluicing off her, dripping from her unbound hair. Triumph screamed through her. She had won. She had stopped…
A fist crashed into her temple, knocking her back into the water. The pain of it was crippling, she could not think, could not speak. The water closed over her head. Dimly, she was aware of fingers gripping her shoulder, pulling her from the depths. With a frustrated grunt, the hand released her shoulder to wrap a hand around her waist and haul her, body limp, to the shore. She fell into a pile on the needle-strewn ground.
There were voices around her, the words indistinct, as though she were still in the water.
“Is she dead?”
Moaning, crying. Betta heard the noises and a moment later realized they were emerging from her.
“Soon will be,” another voice said. “Blade’s stuck in her backbone.”
“Search her.”
Servant to the Borgia Page 37
