The Lion and the Rose

by Kate Quinn

  “An accomplice.” I hesitated, and the wrist knife wobbled as I flicked it away and missed the target altogether. I could see no way to spring an ambush like this without a second pair of arms. Strong arms, too, because Juan would need to be dragged from his horse and bound securely. I was stronger than I looked, but I could not haul a full-grown man off a horse, much less if he was struggling.

  How hard is it to kill a pope’s son? What do you need to do it?

  Will—yes. A site—I had a few places in mind. A lure—that too could be managed, maybe. But an accomplice—that was where my brain stopped. Because I had friends, but no friends I could ask to help in a matter such as this.

  Almost I thought of Cesare. He hated his brother, after all, and he lusted for the opportunities that Juan had squandered. And he knew about his little brother’s hobby; Cesare Borgia knew every secret the family had. He hadn’t bothered to expose Juan, of course—any secret against a rival brother would be kept until the day it proved useful.

  Might he . . .

  No. If Cesare Borgia ever turned Cain against a member of his own family, he would do it for his own reasons. Not merely to avenge a few lowborn serving girls and tavern maids.

  The sun was gone by the time I descended from the loggia with my knives sheathed again and my dilemma no nearer a solution. I had missed cena, so I took myself to the warren of small chambers behind the kitchens, looking to find my wounded Signorina Cuoca and perhaps cadge a little food. But I had no answer at her chamber door, and I wandered out to the kitchen courtyard with a shrug. Where I saw a young man standing in the shadows, one elbow propped against the wall and his face buried in his arm as he aimed the other fist over and over, with great softness and precision, into the stones. “I will kill you,” I heard him mutter indistinctly. “I swear to Christ, you filthy whoremonger, I will kill you—”

  “Kill who?” I called across the courtyard.

  His head jerked up, and I recognized Carmelina’s red-haired apprentice. “What?”

  “You seem to be planning violence.” I sauntered closer, watching my shadow dance in the dim light of a rising half moon. “Violence is my business.”

  “And my business isn’t yours.” He straightened from the wall, and I could see that his knuckles were bruised from where he’d driven them into the stones. Bruised, but not bloody—even in fury, he was taking great care to save his fists. For a more specific target, I would wager.

  “Let me guess.” I smiled, taking out my dagger and stropping it against my boot top. “Could your distress have something to do with our Signorina Cuoca leaving for the Convent of San Sisto tomorrow morning? Or perhaps fleeing for the Convent of San Sisto would be more accurate. And you’ve been in love with our bad-tempered Venetian cook since you were, oh, fifteen?”

  “Carmelina said you saved her from the Duke of Gandia,” the boy cut me off. “So I’ll thank you for that. But don’t twit me, Messer Leonello. I’m no boy anymore.”

  “Debatable,” I said, but Carmelina’s apprentice had grown since I’d last bothered to notice him. A strapping young fellow, really, standing with one shoulder jammed truculently against the wall of the courtyard and his face leveled down at mine in a cool stare. Whipping egg whites and cream tops might not be as noble a calling as the sword, but it evidently built men every bit as strong.

  “So you have heard what happened to Carmelina,” I said, and pushed the knife back into my boot top. “Regrettable, but hardly uncommon. I hope you’re not thinking you can take on the Duke of Gandia in revenge?”

  “He’s too high for me,” Bartolomeo returned. “I’d sink a meat cleaver in his skull if I could, but I don’t want to die or be excommunicated just for crossing the Pope’s son. I’d rather live, marry Carmelina, take her to Milan so we can learn how they do that leavened citron bread of theirs, and come back to Rome someday to cook for the next Pope.”

  I whistled. If this redheaded boy had gotten through all the thorns around the heart (or the bed) of our prickly palazzo cook, I was prepared to be impressed. And possibly ask for his secret. “She’s going to marry you, is she?”

  “I’m working on that part.”

  “Making any progress?”

  He ran a wide, scarred hand through his hair. “Slowly.”

  “Fair warning—she has a secret or two that might inconvenience your grand plans.”

  “You mean that she’s a nun?”

  My eyebrows shot up. She had trusted him with that, had she? Interesting.

  Bartolomeo shrugged, seeing my expression. “It’s a wrinkle, I admit.”

  “Surely more than that.” I inspected him. “Don’t tell me you mean to run away with a bride of Christ! Don’t you know what they do to despoilers of nuns? And you such a stainless young man—”

  “It’s a wrinkle,” he repeated, chin jutting.

  Dio, the dreams of young men. “So, if not il Duche, whom are you thinking of killing on her behalf?”

  “No one.” A level look. “I wouldn’t quibble at killing him, but I don’t want to swing from a gibbet. And I don’t want blood on my conscience, either. I’m no murderer, like you or that dead-eyed thug Michelotto—”

  “You flatter me,” I murmured.

  “—but that pretty-faced, mush-brained cousin of Carmelina’s lured her to the Duke to get a debt erased, and he’s going to pay.”

  “With his life? What about ‘Thou shalt not kill?’”

  “Our Lord never said anything about ‘Thou shalt not beat him to a pulp.’”

  I felt my smile widen. “He didn’t, did He?”

  “Maestro Santini wagered her!” Bartolomeo burst out. “They’re cousins; they learned to cook in the same kitchen; maybe they even shared a bed—” A bitter twist of his mouth at that. “He must have been fond of her, with all that behind them. And he still gave her to the Duke of Gandia! Even though he’d have seen the other maidservants in this house who have caught the Duke’s eye, the same ones I saw with their bruises and—” The red-haired boy stopped, a pulse beating fast and furious in his jaw. “Sweet Jesu, I’ve never seen her like she was tonight. She’s quivering like a jelly. If I’d been there in that wine cellar—”

  “You’d have defended her gallantly, I’m sure,” I said. “And you would have been killed.”

  “Maybe,” he said with a steeliness that pleased me. “And maybe I can’t touch the Duke of Gandia. People like him never pay for the things they do. But Marco Santini’s no higher in this world than I am, and I’m going to break every bone in his body.”

  “Excellent idea,” I said. “I can help.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  “But I do.” I pushed away from the wall, advancing on him. “What if I told you the Duke of Gandia wasn’t as out of reach as you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  What do I need to kill a pope’s son? I thought.

  The will—yes. The site—I had one in mind. The lure—trickier, but I had an idea there too. And as for the final piece, the accomplice. Someone tall, someone strong, someone resolute. Someone with good reason to hate Juan Borgia.

  “Sit down, Bartolomeo.” It was quite dark now, but that was good. Murder is better planned in the dark, where the angels cannot eavesdrop. “I have a proposition for you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  He who places great trust will end up greatly deceived.

  —BARTOLOMEO SCAPPI, MASTER COOK

  Giulia

  You,” I informed my Pope’s favorite son, “are not welcome here.”

  Juan Borgia laughed, throwing his auburn head back so it gleamed in the morning sunshine. I continued to look down at him cold-eyed from the marble steps where I’d come to block his path from the courtyard into the palazzo, my pet goat at my heels.

  “Can’t a fond brother come visit his little sister?” Juan was very much the handsome young gallant this morning in his embroidered hose, his velvet cloak with the red satin lining, his spurred boots and the mirror-brigh
t breastplate he now wore at all times to emphasize his position as Gonfalonier. He struck a pose for the courtyard full of grooms and rushing pages and bustling squires. “Don’t be sour, Giulia Farnese, let me in to see ’Crezia—”

  “Lucrezia left for the Convent of San Sisto already, as you would know if you had bothered to ask Cesare or Messer Burchard or the Holy Father, or anyone else.” My lover’s daughter was just a day departed, and after the whirlwind of packing and unpacking and repacking, the palazzo seemed very empty without her. Or perhaps the palazzo just was empty: Adriana gone to her niece, Lucrezia to her convent, Cesare preparing for a journey south since he had just been made papal legate to Naples (and hadn’t that ruffled a few feathers, given his youth). Rodrigo was not much in evidence either; still embroiled up to his ears in the wake of a consistory so private and secret that it had taken a full twenty-four hours for the news to spread across the city that various papal fiefs—Pontecorvo, Terracina, not to mention the Duchy of Benevento—were all to be given to Juan.

  I didn’t dare tell Rodrigo just what a dreadful idea I thought that was. As if Juan needed any more reasons to puff himself up!

  “If you wish to visit Lucrezia, you are too late,” I continued crisply to the Duke of Gandia and Benevento and all the rest. “She missed you yesterday, when she made her departure. I can’t think why.”

  “Then let me in to visit my other sister,” Juan said, not turning a hair. “My dear little Laura. Can’t a big brother play with his favorite girl?”

  “I don’t like how you play with my daughter, Juan.” Far too roughly: tossing Laura overhead first until she squealed, and then until she screamed. Or if it wasn’t tousling and pinching and pushing, he was jesting in that mean way I so disliked: hiding Laura’s favorite doll, the one she loved so much it was bald and faceless, as she hunted all over the palazzo weeping.

  “Why so cross, Giulia? Don’t tell me you’re breeding again. That always makes a woman bad-tempered!” Juan’s squires and soldiers behind him gave obedient snickers. Juan grinned, offering me a bow as I glared, and presented me with the little nosegay of fresh violets and rosebuds that he had presumably brought for Lucrezia. “Even when you’re scowling, you’re beautiful—”

  I took the nosegay and handed it to my pet goat. “I’ll not have you over my threshold right now, Juan Borgia.” The goat munched placidly at the mouthful of violets, and I spoke loud and clear so my voice carried to the guardsmen standing behind me, to Leonello who watched from the door’s shadow since I’d ordered him to stay out of Juan’s sight, to the squires and soldiers at Juan’s back, and the grooms still holding Juan’s horse in the courtyard. “Not when you attempt to ravage my cooks and my maids. I won’t have you over my threshold again until I have a promise you will conduct yourself decently in future.” I had no hopes I could bar Juan from my door forever, but I’d settle for vows of good behavior, particularly if I could get my Pope to add a stern lecture. Not that either would stick for long, but I could at least keep a very close eye on Juan in future whenever he crossed my threshold. And tell all the maids to travel in groups.

  “What stories have you been hearing, Giulia?” Juan wheedled me with another smile, sauntering closer. I refused to back away as he put one boot on the marble step where I stood, drawing his handsome profile close to mine. “Is some maidservant telling tales about me again? I’m not near as bad as my reputation, you know.” He lowered his voice to what he probably thought was a sultry whisper. “In fact, I’m better.”

  He tried to slip an arm about me, but I gave his wrist a smack like I smacked my little goat whenever he tried to eat my sleeves. Juan’s smile vanished. “It’s not your threshold, Giulia Farnese,” he warned. “I do what I wish here. And if you’re talking about that long-legged bitch in your kitchens, she’s a slut and a cock-tease, and she shouldn’t mix with her betters at your banquets!”

  “I assure you, she was not mixing with her betters if she was mixing with you,” I said coldly, and turned in a whirl of blue velvet skirts.

  “I assure you, the bitch liked it.” Juan seized me about the waist and yanked me back, pulling me up against him, and to my shock I tasted his wine-sour breath as his mouth leeched onto mine. I wrenched my head away, spluttering, hearing his soldiers hoot, and I would have slapped him but he had locked my arms fast against my sides with his own. He smiled, watching me struggle, and I felt just how strong he was. He could hold me all day if he wanted, and I felt a disquieting pang of fear thrum through my stomach. I had never feared Juan before—he was such a lout!—but his eyes had a fever-bright gleam now that pinned me like a doe pinned by spears on a hunt. Did Carmelina see that look in his eyes? I found myself wondering, and swallowed around the sudden lump in my throat.

  I made myself stop struggling against his grip, made myself look into his face as though quite unperturbed. “Don’t be an ass, Juan. The whole palazzo is watching.”

  “I don’t care, not if you don’t.” His voice was still a hot whisper, and one of his hands dragged upward toward my breasts. “You want it too, don’t you, Giulia? Just like that tall kitchen bitch. All women want it, I can give it to you—”

  “Good morning, Your Holiness,” Leonello said brightly, strolling out of the doorway’s shadows to my side and aiming a bow behind Juan as though Rodrigo had just arrived in the courtyard. Juan’s arms dropped away from me like two limp strips of pasta. He whirled, smoothing a hand over his mouth, but the courtyard was empty of anyone except guardsmen and goggling servants. Juan turned back with a glare for my bodyguard, and the pang of fear in my stomach deepened to a needle-sharp shaft piercing all the way through me. I didn’t know the details of how Leonello had come to clash with Juan over Carmelina, but I knew it had happened, and I’d ordered Leonello to stay out of sight of the Pope’s favorite son. But I’d never had any luck yet trying to give Leonello orders, and here he stood at my side: arms folded across his chest, looking up at Juan with that cool insolent stare of his that would madden a saint.

  “You and I have business to finish, dwarf.” Juan snapped his fingers to the half-dozen guardsmen at his back. “Seize that little monster at once. I’ll have him strung up!”

  My breath froze in my throat, but Leonello merely smiled. “The first man to touch me,” he said, unfolding his arms to show the knives already in his hands, “gets a blade through the eye.”

  “You think my men can’t hang you up by your heels in this doorway, dwarf?” Juan spat.

  “Of course they can,” Leonello agreed. “Five will be more than enough.”

  “I have six men!”

  “No,” Leonello corrected gently. “Five. Because I’m going to kill the first one who lays a hand on me. Likely I’ll only get one, and then the other five can string me up as you please. But the first one dies, and that I promise. So—” he gave a benign smile, stropping one of his daggers along the top of one boot. “Who wants to be first?”

  Juan’s guardsmen, who had started forward obediently with hands on dagger hilts, suddenly looked a trifle uncertain. One or two even looked shamefaced—after all, plenty of the Borgia guardsmen rather liked Leonello, who often joined the house guards at their card games when he wasn’t guarding me. Whether out of fright or out of consideration, they hesitated, and I took a step forward up to my bodyguard’s side, repressing the urge to put myself between him and the danger just for once rather than the other way around. His pride would never stand for that. “May I add, good sirs, that this man is under my protection?” I fingered my huge teardrop pearl, reminding them just who had given it to me. “Which is to say, the protection of the Holy Father Himself.”

  “The Holy Father does what I say!” Juan snarled, but his men had fallen back a step, looking between my gleaming jewels and Leonello’s gleaming blades. Leonello’s mouth had tilted in a smile of faint contempt, gazing at Juan who stared back in flat loathing, and I laid a warning hand on my bodyguard’s shoulder. Juan was hard enough to handle without being furth
er stoked by Leonello’s jibes.

  “Go home, Juan,” I said, and wiped an ostentatious hand along my mouth as though to wipe the taste of his kiss away. “Get out now, and perhaps I won’t say anything to the Holy Father. How you threatened my bodyguard, or how you put your hands on me.”

  “Tell him,” Juan shrugged, with a final narrow look for Leonello. “I’ll say you led me on. He always believes me, don’t you know that by now?” The Duke of Gandia lowered his voice. “And you do lead me on, Giulia Farnese. I know what you want. You’re too much for an old man, you’re wet for something younger—”

  I whirled and stamped into the palazzo then, hearing Juan’s snigger behind me as the doors shut. “I’ll find you another day, dwarf,” he called in a parting shout. “When you’re not hiding behind a whore’s skirts!”

  Leonello merely yawned. “You shouldn’t taunt him,” I scolded as the guards bolted the doors and I heard the retreat of bootsteps from the courtyard. “He never forgets an insult, you know that.”

  Leonello fingered his damascened knife hilts. “Then I’ll give him some new insults to remember.”

  “You had better not!” I scrubbed at my lips, still tasting the sour wine on Juan’s breath. Ugh, ugh, ugh, but I wanted a bath! Just a kiss, and I felt slimy all over.

  “Gossip in Rome has it three to one that the Duke of Gandia goes to Naples soon,” Leonello volunteered. “Perhaps he’ll stay there.”

  “For both our sakes, I hope so.” Ever since receiving his new papal territories, Juan had been swaggering all over crowing about his new acquisitions, boasting how one day he’d add Naples to those same acquisitions, and maybe he’d just march down with his armies and make himself king there by force rather than wait any longer. I didn’t want him king of anywhere, except maybe hell, but if he went to Naples maybe he’d stay there.