The Devil's Mistress

by Laura Navarre

  With difficulty, she managed to laugh. “La, these are deep thoughts! You are not my confessor, Your Excellency, and you are certainly not my God. That much, I will gladly drink to.”

  She lifted the poisoned goblet and pressed it into his hand. When he claimed it, his fingers brushed hers in a fleeting caress. She dropped her lashes and stepped aside, leaving him with the goblet.

  To cover the tremor in her limbs, she crossed to the fire, alert for the fatal moment when he would drink. Unhurried, he followed her, eyes hooded as he studied the flames.

  Yet he did not drink.

  “As you say, I am not your confessor.” Thoughtfully he swirled the wine. “Although I might have been, if my brother hadn’t perished before I completed my religious studies. Such a waste that was, Iago’s death. He was recklessly brave and noble to a fault, far too noble to face common soldiers on the butchering-ground of battle. Men fought that day like cornered weasels. Such a meaningless death, for one of the few truly good men I have ever known.”

  God save her from his wickedness. He could feign sorrow and remorse so well he appeared almost genuine. There was no actor’s role that he could not play, no mask he could not wear. But his eyes blazed with intensity, like a comet flaming across the heavens.

  “I have heard that your brother—Iago, was it?—perished in battle with the French.”

  “Ah, the French.” His mouth twisted, as though he tasted foulness, though his lips hadn’t touched the cup. “But it was God’s will. He perished in a futile effort to defend our holdings in Italy—and, yes, he died fighting the French. Haven’t you seen the connection, my pet? Where did your Joscelin earn his knighthood?”

  The knowledge burst upon her like an explosion, lighting in brilliant fire what had been cloaked in shadow. Maximo’s antipathy for a man he’d never met, the sudden demand to seen Joscelin condemned for murder, the passion that seethed beneath his still surface.

  “Gesù!” she whispered, hand rising to her throat. “It was Joscelin who killed your brother.”

  “Brava, my dear.”

  “I swear he doesn’t know it—”

  “Oh, indeed. Quite possibly, the heretic Boleyn has no notion of any relationship between the great Spanish knight he butchered in Milan and myself. In truth, I look forward to enlightening him.

  “Still, perhaps I ought to thank him. When my brother died, I became my father’s heir, a wealthy grandee instead of a threadbare priest.”

  “Perhaps the Church was well rid of you.” Santa Maria, would the man never drink? It was unnatural, to hold the goblet so long without drinking. Surely he must suspect—

  “What an uncharitable remark, Allegra. Truly, I am surprised at you. Of course, it’s easier to think of me as your archenemy, but I am more than that. Can’t you see it? You are the knife to my sharpening-stone. I’m the unyielding surface that hones your purpose. Without me, you’d be dead and forgotten, burned for a witch or a murderess years ago, your ashes long since scattered on the wind.”

  “You take too much credit upon yourself. You saved my life for your own dark purpose—no better than Casimiro or the men who burned my mother.”

  “Ah, don’t forget your brother-by-marriage—Innocenzo, that good and virtuous man you bewitched. What else could force him to murder his own brother?”

  “He was not forced! He conceived the crime himself. I never even asked for assistance.” Aye, guilt weighed her soul for that death. If Innocenzo hadn’t wanted her, he’d probably still be alive.

  “But Innocenzo damned himself for your sake, didn’t he?” Maximo brooded into his goblet, sniffing the bouquet without drinking. “Where would you be without us, Allegra—the Grimaldi brothers and myself? One more merchant’s brat roaming the stinking streets of Venice, lifting your skirts for some paunchy tradesman, raising a passel of whelps in mediocrity and searching your bleak life for some crumb of meaning? Consider my words without rancor, and you’ll recognize the truth.”

  Gracefully, he raised the goblet to salute her. Santo Spirito, was he drinking at last? His throat rippled as he swallowed—once, twice, a third time. Dizzy with elation, she whirled away and paced—forcing herself to appear sedate, when she wanted to laugh, weep, and most of all run. Run from his words, the pitiless eyes that stripped away her illusions, the terrible risk she was taking.

  Behind her, the don cleared his throat. She sipped from her goblet as though nothing were amiss. “Will you take a bit more wine, Excellency? A surpassing fine Falernian, isn’t it?”

  “A small token from the queen, in gratitude for my impassioned defense of her interests.” Distracted, he sniffed the wine. Her heartbeat quickened. Although the poison could exude an unpleasant odor, she had counted on the wine to disguise it. A line appeared between his brows.

  “I am not certain…” Sudden comprehension transformed his features. His gaze flew to hers. “Why, Allegra! So much for your vaunted oath never to take a life. What have you slipped into my wine?”

  Guilt, alarm, dismay churned through her. She worried that he’d discerned the taste too quickly, and might not have drunk enough to experience the full effect. If he did not fall, she must disable him another way. Didn’t he richly deserve the worst she could do to him?

  “If you cooperate, Your Excellency, I’ll tell you what you drank and how to counter its effect. For now, I advise you to sit down, before you fall.”

  She gave the man full credit for composure, even in extremis. White as snow, he set the goblet on his writing desk and gripped his chair.

  “And if I choose not to cooperate? Will you stand over me like an avenging angel while I writhe on the floor in agony?”

  Knowing she must convince him, she locked her eyes on his. “I am leaving this place, and you are no longer in a position to prevent me. The palace is all but empty, the king and queen away with most of the court. Those few who remain are happily soused in the banquet hall.”

  “By which you mean to say, no one will hear me if I shout for help?” His face contorted as a cough exploded from his lips. When the fit passed, his eyes watered. “Ah, you are fleeing to your family at last. You must believe you’ve discovered their location. My dear, you have fallen prey to a dreadful oversight.”

  Dread seeped through her, as if she’d been poisoned herself. “I know exactly where they’re imprisoned, and you may believe that is no oversight. Nonetheless, you’ll confirm the location before I leave this chamber if you wish to survive the night. Frankly, I did not expect the coughing, but perhaps you’re allergic to the potion. Sit down or fall down, it makes little difference to me.”

  Don Maximo doubled over as another cough tore through him, his body striving to expel the poison that must be searing his mouth and throat. He lowered himself into the chair, gripping its arms, and braced until the spasm passed.

  Cautious, she kept her distance, struggling against an unexpected sense of pity. She had never stood over a man poisoned by her own hand and watched him struggle for breath.

  As he gasped for air, she swallowed past her own dry throat. No force on earth would make her drink his wine now.

  “Tell me where you’re holding them,” she said, “and I’ll spare you the worst.”

  Even as he struggled for breath, he cast her a sharp look. “Why do you ask me to tell? You must have some notion already. You could not have been certain I would cooperate—the Devil that I am.”

  “If you choose not to cooperate, you may anticipate nausea, dehydration, convulsions, unconsciousness. Ultimately, your heart will stop, and that will send you to Satan sooner than you’d planned. Tell me now, before it’s too late.”

  “I must concede that you hold a certain advantage. Kindly bring me a cup of water, and we shall see what I can recall.”

  Impatient, she splashed water from the ewer into a cup, and warily placed it near him. He gripped the cup in both hands, before the first convulsion knotted his body. The cup fell from his grip and spilled its contents across the floor
.

  “Tell me now, for God’s sake!” she cried. “If you lose consciousness and can’t swallow the antidote, you’ll have little chance of waking.”

  He writhed in his chair, damn the man, hunching over his stomach. She struggled against a sense of growing horror. Gesù have pity—and make him speak! Would she really let him die if he didn’t?

  “What if I say—they’re held at—Pontefract Castle? Now you must wonder—whether I’m lying. What have you gained?”

  He’s lying. They’re in the Tower of London. Sweat sprang out against her brow, as though she were the one dying. No castle in England bore a reputation as black as Pontefract, a remote fortress where the rightful Yorkist king, the second Richard, had been murdered in an appalling manner. A more miserable and terrifying prison could scarcely be imagined.

  But surely, if he said they were at Pontefract, it proved he hadn’t tampered with her father’s letter? If he intended to trap her, wouldn’t he name the same place, to make the letter appear genuine?

  Uncertainty yawned before her. Nay, she wouldn’t believe him. He was the Father of Lies.

  The don wrapped both arms around his stomach and groaned. Knowing she could delay no longer, she found the demulcent of milk and eggs she’d prepared to coat the victim’s stomach and ease the cramping while the antidote was administered. Someone must get him into his bed—

  Cautiously she approached him. His head lifted, sweat-damp hair falling forward to obscure his vision. Despite his discomfort, he managed to laugh.

  “Oh, Allegra, my reluctant angel of mercy! No assassin in history has ever looked so wretched. How badly you have—miscalculated.”

  “What do you mean? Speak plainer, if you want your treatment!”

  Then, from behind her, the knife pressed against her throat. She froze as the dry spice of incense flooded her nostrils.

  “Step away from him, Contessa,” Fausto said. “Or I’ll wreak the Lord’s vengeance and slit your lying throat.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Oh, minchiona, you fool—you fool! Allegra’s thoughts raced as she stood rigid beneath the blade. The warm trickle of blood down her throat confirmed its keen edge. Priest or clerk or whatever he was, Fausto Mephisto was ready for violence.

  Too late, she cursed her lack of foresight. She should have noticed the outer door was unbolted; she should have barred it before she began this wretched business. Yet how could she have acted before the don’s very eyes, without rousing his immediate suspicion?

  “Step away,” Fausto said, his breath rotten against her cheek. He stood close enough to embrace, but directly behind her. She must strike blindly if she wanted to overcome him.

  “There’s no need for violence.” She kept her voice level and edged aside, away from the don, to give herself room. She gripped the flask of demulcent in her left hand; her stiletto was in its sheath.

  Don Maximo watched them, panting. “Now you are wondering…how skillful a priest can possibly be…with a blade. Permit me to offer a word of advice, for all our sakes. Do not try him.”

  She risked a glance behind her. The priest’s sunken eyes burned with a zealot’s fire, and perspiration slicked his skin. Yet he stood with legs apart, weight balanced, ready to move. When she shifted to try him, hard fingers gripped her right arm—her knife-hand—and twisted it tight behind her. She muffled a cry as white-hot pain shot through her shoulder, convinced that he knew his business, this priest who was no priest. For the moment, her stiletto was out of reach.

  “Well done, Fausto. You’ve bested me.” As well as she could, she subsided under his grip. With his leverage, he could dislocate her shoulder, and she could not afford to be crippled. “’Tis a curious form of worship, though, for a man who calls himself a priest.”

  “Be assured that I am a priest—a fully ordained servant of God. Sworn to guard both His Excellency’s spiritual and physical welfare. I stood in plain sight for weeks, but you were too arrogant to see it—as blind as your father. You, his chosen one, his favored apprentice!”

  Dread kicked her in the belly, driving the breath from her lungs. Santo Spirito, he knew everything. Her thoughts flew back over a flurry of clues, lost in the looming menace of her greater concerns—his skill on horseback, the times he’d surprised her with a stealthy approach, the way his eyes tracked her. No priest on earth moved like he did. Now he immobilized her in a familiar hold—the placement of his hands and body exactly as she herself had learned.

  “Gesù!” she whispered. “How can this be possible? I was his only apprentice.”

  “You may be the only one whose training he completed, the one he chose to continue his legacy. But you’re not the only one he trained.”

  A distant memory stirred. Aye, the Hand of God had trained another, long ago. Dimly, she’d been aware of it. But the training was so exhausting for a man of her father’s age and infirmities that he couldn’t teach two at once. When she came to him after her hellish marriage, desperate to find a way out, he’d abandoned some half-trained pupil and taken her on instead. Centered in her misery and her own blind despair, none of this had mattered then. Now she understood, too late, who that spurned apprentice had been.

  “Surely, Fausto, you can’t blame me for that decision.” She knew the counter to this hold, but she needed him to stand a few inches closer before she tried it. “My father told me he despaired of your rigid thinking—your utter lack of compassion. The Hand of God has always been an executor of divine will, punishing the evildoer, but showing mercy to those who repent. In you, he saw the wrath of God, but never His grace.”

  “That is a foul and vicious lie!” Spittle sprayed her cheek as Fausto dug the knife deeper.

  Her throat stung as blood trickled from the wound. His crushing grip had become a vise around her numb and tingling arm.

  “He chose me for my piety,” the priest said, “among dozens who fought for the honor. Yet when you came to him with your woman’s tears, refusing the husband God gave you, he cast me aside like a broken blade that had outlived its usefulness.”

  Don Maximo voiced a stifled cry. He’d fallen to hands and knees, fighting the convulsions that savaged him, his symptoms progressing on their inevitable course. He must have the antidote at once, or it would be too late.

  “Let me treat him,” she said. The knife slid from her jugular to dig beneath her ear, which was no vast improvement. “Let me help him before it’s too late!”

  “Do you think I’d trust a word you say, harlot? I’ll help the don myself, once you are dealt with.”

  “Do you intend to slay me outright?” She sagged against him, like a swooning woman. “And take my place as his hired killer, a slave to his whim? I swear you would not enjoy it.”

  “My enjoyment, or lack of it, is irrelevant.” He bared his teeth like an animal, like the rabid wolf who had menaced her. “God has placed me here, and your death serves His purpose.”

  “Then I shall have no regrets,” she whispered, bending her knees and twisting. The knife dislodged from her throat as she slammed her heel down on his instep with crushing force. Bones crunched beneath her foot as the shock shot up her leg. Fausto howled in surprise and pain, his grip shaking loose. She wrenched away, and her right arm swept up to send the knife flying.

  Even blind with pain, Fausto was too well-trained to drop his weapon. Limping back on his broken foot, he shifted his grip. The blade flashed before her—a long-hilted stiletto, identical to hers—then plunged down in a deadly arc. The flask of demulcent slipped from her fingers and shattered as she leaped away, a breath too late. The knife sliced across her shoulder and carved a line of white-hot agony. Warm blood soaked her sleeve and spilled down her arm.

  Gasping with pain, she circled away from the broken glass at her feet and fumbled to draw her stiletto.

  “Arrêtez!” a voice bellowed. A blur of black-and-crimson exploded through the door as a man hammered toward her. But Fausto had already committed to his attack. The priest lunge
d at her, dark robes flying around him as he stabbed toward her belly. Desperately she parried the blow. Steel rang as she leaped away.

  “Hold, damn it!” Sir Joscelin Boleyn shouted, launching through the air.

  Sensing this new peril, the priest twisted, his knife driving up in a killing strike. Then Joscelin slammed into him and knocked him aside. The two men flew sprawling to the floor in a tangle of thrashing limbs.

  As they hit the ground, someone cried out—the high breathless scream of a mortal wound. A pang of terror knifed through her, as though she’d been stabbed herself. God pity her, let Joscelin be safe!

  She hardly knew how he’d managed to outride her, to make up the distance on the road from Belhaven. He must have half-killed his horse doing it. Now, surely, he meant to condemn her.

  Instead, he’d thundered to her rescue, like the hero of a romantic ballad—despite everything she’d done to make him despise her. He’d flung himself into combat with the most dangerous man alive—an assassin trained by the Hand of God, fired by holy wrath, and armed with his favorite weapon.

  She dared not intervene as they rolled across the floor, too quick and furious for her to discern friend from foe. When the bright spill of arterial blood smeared across the carpet, her heart convulsed. In that deadly collision, the naked stiletto had pierced tender flesh.

  “Joscelin!” she screamed, helpless and horrified. Dear God, help him!

  With a curse, Joscelin shoved himself clear. Red blood dripped from his cloak as he rolled to his knees. His golden eyes blazed like twin suns when he saw the crimson drenching her sleeve. “Mon Dieu, you’re injured.”

  “Never mind me, it’s nothing. Look to yourself!”

  Springing to his feet, he unsheathed his broadsword in a single motion. Yet Fausto did not leap up to resume their lethal combat. Slowly, the priest’s hands fluttered across his chest to find the stiletto jutting from his breast. When Joscelin had knocked him to the floor, the Spaniard had fallen face-down on his own blade.

  “Stay back,” Joscelin said. Over the priest’s convulsing body, he met her gaze. Fausto struggled to push up but sagged back, face twisting as he clawed at the knife. Burning with unholy fire, his white-rimmed eyes found Joscelin.