The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (15 page)

There followed shouted orders, a rush of motion, the pounding of booted feet, and—off to the sides—the startled faces of high and low alike, suddenly awakening to the presence of danger within the walls they had counted on to keep them safe.

Following with all speed, I told myself that I was certain of what I had seen, but was I really? That day alone my mind had conjured up a vision of a blood-soaked world, the pretty spectacle of fireflies dancing beneath the roof of a church, and reality turned into a shattered mosaic. How could I even consider trusting my senses?

Yet they were reliable at least as regarded the dead man. The page remained where I had found him. His face, revealed more clearly by torches swiftly lit by the guards, appeared serene. Like the others, he gave every evidence of having died suddenly and with very little awareness of what was happening to him. As Vittoro’s men spread out, searching for anyone hiding in the cellars, I knelt beside the body. A quick examination confirmed the absence of any wound or other sign of violence. I was considering whether to look deeper when Vittoro returned.

“Whomever you may have seen down here is gone,” he said. Looking down at the body, he asked, “The same as the others?”

“I think so.” Rising, I added, “These deaths coming right now cannot be a coincidence. The assassin is here in Viterbo.”

“If you could give a description…”

I shook my head. “The light was too dim. I saw a figure moving. Nothing more.”

Vittoro nodded slowly. He put a hand on my shoulder. “What brought you down here at this time of day?”

Briefly, I considered telling him the truth, but I could not bear for him to see me as weak or pitiable.

“You know what has been happening. I wanted to check everything again.”

“No other reason?”

“What other reason could there be?”

He hesitated a moment. “You have become very regular in your devotions.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were seen not long ago returning again from Santa Maria della Salute.”

“What are you saying? Am I being watched?”

Vittoro stepped back a little. In the light from the torches, he looked brooding and worried. “When the Pope’s poisoner suddenly feels the need to make regular church visits, tongues are going to wag.”

I had not thought of that. In my blind absorption with my own concerns, it had not occurred to me how my actions might be interpreted. Cesare knew a little about Mother Benedette, and Renaldo was aware that a nun had come looking for me, but I had to hope that no one else had any notion of who she was or why I would be speaking with her.

In a bid for time to think, I asked, “Do these wagging tongues offer an explanation for my behavior?”

Vittoro smiled faintly. “The consensus is that His Holiness has charged you to do something so terrible that you feel compelled to beseech Almighty God’s forgiveness in advance. The difficulty lies in imagining what you would consider that bad, but everyone is much diverted trying to figure it out.”

“Oh, well, as long as they’re diverted.…”

“Seriously, Francesca, if there is something I should know, I would like to hear it now.”

“It is a private matter, not touching on my responsibility to His Holiness.” I spoke too quickly; Vittoro would know that I was unnerved. But he was my friend and I was counting on him to understand that I did not want to discuss the matter. Of course, he would also make his own inquiries in the meantime, but that was only to be expected.

“As you wish,” he said. “If you remember anything more about what you saw down here—”

“I will tell you at once. I trust your men to keep a good lookout.”

“Of course. Someone is going to a great deal of trouble and risk. There has to be a reason.”

I was no closer to determining what that might be when together we left the cellars and returned to the palazzo above. Throughout the remainder of the day, my thoughts were jumbled and unclear. I was missing something, but worse yet, in my present state I had scant hope of unraveling the skeins of danger and intrigue that were drawing us all deeper and deeper into a deadly web.

15

Water sloshed from the wooden bucket and splattered across the floor. The maids gasped and fell to their knees, mopping frantically with their aprons. I thought to reassure them that a little spill was not such a calamity, but instead I pretended not to notice. In the hours since the page’s death, the usual fear and dread that my dark calling inspired had intensified beyond all my previous experience. Everywhere I went, I encountered sullen, angry looks and worse. Now, when my sole wish was an end to the torturous day, I could not bear to see such condemnation in the eyes of the two young girls sent to fill my bath.

When they were gone, running in their haste, I stripped off my clothes and sank into the water. Leaning my head back against the rim of the tub, I closed my eyes and tried to relax. Thoughts of the dead page intruded, but I pushed them away. My only hope of preventing further deaths was to find the assassin before he could strike again. I would not do that by dwelling on what it was too late to change. For a time, my efforts seemed to work. The pain behind my eyes lessened, as did the aching stiffness in my back and shoulders. But with the easing of bodily discomfort, other thoughts intruded.

My father had told a great lie. By denying the truth of what had happened to my mother, he had denied the horror I had witnessed. No matter how good and loving his purpose, he had left me alone to deal with memories no child should ever have to endure. For a time, I had retreated into a place where nothing could touch me. But when I emerged, the memories were there waiting for me. They had become the nightmare that haunted me.

Nothing would ever lessen the love I had for my father or my determination to avenge his death. Even so, anger at what he had done threatened to overwhelm me. Unbidden, I suddenly found myself wondering what Rocco would make of it all. He and my father had been good friends; under other circumstances they might also have been father- and son-in-law. What would he think of such a deception? As he was a father himself, I suspected he would be better able to understand it than I could. And as a former monk, he would certainly be more inclined to forgive.

I missed Rocco. Whatever else there might have been between us, he was my dear friend, to whom I had turned in times of great trouble and whose wise counsel I had the good sense to value. Or at least he had been. Surely I deluded myself if I thought that could continue after he and Carlotta wed. She could hardly be expected to welcome my coming by the shop, taking him from his work, and involving him in dangerous matters. She would see to it that he was far too busy for any of that.

What would I do without him? There was Cesare, of course, but my relationship with him was entirely different, and besides, he would be occupied with his father’s business. I had other friends—Sofia, Vittoro, a handful more—but none was as close as Rocco. If he were here right now, I would—

I would what? I was not a foolish girl who mooned over what could not be. The pain was back behind my eyes. I sat up in the tub and stared down into the water, struggling to find a measure of calm.

And found instead my mother, her face looking back at me. The sight stirred such yearning that I had to believe I truly did remember her. Remembered, too, the knife as it flashed, cutting through flesh, destroying hope, dreams, all that was good. Bringing only blood.

The water in the tub was gone. I was bathing in blood, drowning in it, and I could not even scream. I was paralyzed, unable to move. My mind was shattering, threatening to fly away in a thousand jagged pieces like the mosaic I had seen. When next I was aware, I was standing beside the tub, naked and shivering. Choking on sobs, hardly able to breathe, I staggered to the bed. Slumped there, hugging my knees, I managed finally to pull a blanket over myself, but I could not stop the convulsions that wracked me. I reached out for the small box in which I kept Sofia’s powder, only to knock it onto the floor. The lid flew off and the powder spilled. Frantically, I scrambled to retrieve as much of it as I could. In my haste, I sent more drifting up into the air, dispersing beyond my grasp. Much of the rest was lost in the threads of the carpet. I was left with only a faint tracing, which I licked in desperation from my fingers, the bitter taste mingling with the salt of the tears that coursed down my face.

Exhausted and aching, I finally accepted that the powder was gone. Only the clawing hunger for it remained. Sleep was out of the question, but I forced myself to rise and with trembling hands dropped a nightgown over my head and straightened the bed. Achieving that small degree of order soothed me a little, but I needed much more. Looking around for some source of comfort, I remembered my mother’s psalter.

When I had retrieved it from the puzzle chest, I crawled back into bed holding the small book. Cupping it in the palm of my hand, I spread my fingers and let it fall open as it would. My eyes alit on the delicately inscribed words:

The Lord is the keeper of little ones: I was little and He delivered me.
Turn, O my soul, into thy rest: for the Lord hath been bountiful to thee.
For He hath delivered my soul from death: my eyes from tears, my feet from falling.
I will please the Lord in the land of the living.
Abruptly, I slammed the psalter shut; heedless of what damage I might do to it. Hot tears trickled down my face. How cruel the promise of those words. I was little and he did not deliver me. I was still falling, far from the land of the living. There was nothing and nowhere for me to catch onto.

Except the memory of the mother who had hidden me and turned to face the darkness by herself.

My throat was thick and my eyes burned as I slowly opened the psalter again. Though I could barely see at first, I turned each page with care, my fingers lingering where she had touched as though I might feel what she had felt—her courage, her joy … her love.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have done so because the nightmare came. I was behind the wall, peering out through the small hole in it. It was a game, my mother had said. There was no reason to be afraid. Her words echoed in my ears.

“Don’t move, sweetheart, and don’t make a sound until I get you out.”

Three men came into the room. They all seemed very large, much taller and broader than my mother. One wore a brown felt hat pulled low over his brow. She called him brother.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“You know why.” He punched his right hand in his left and cracked the knuckles. “Where is the child?”

“With friends. Aldo, listen to me. We only want to be left in peace.”

He snarled and spit a great wad of phlegm that landed almost on her feet. “You should have thought of that before you married one of them.”

“My husband is a Christian!”

“Your husband is a filthy Jew! You have brought shame on us all! Father drinks all day. Mother … she just weeps and weeps. We cannot endure this any longer.”

“Then they should accept him! We can be a family again!” She held out her hands, pleading. The other two men circled to either side around her. They looked bored.

“A family? You stupid bitch!”

That was a
bad
word! Young as I was, I knew that. Frightened, I forgot what she had told me and opened my mouth.

“Mamma!”

My cry was lost beneath her scream as a knife flashed. My mother fell to her knees, clutching her chest. The knife rose and fell again. The other men were joining in, their own blades drawn. Her brother was shouting, but I could no longer hear. The rush of blood in my ears drowned out all else. Disbelief and horror overwhelmed me.

I had to get away!
Had to.
Away from the wall, away from the terror, and most especially, away from the knowledge that what I was seeing was not the product of a disordered mind but was actually real. I had witnessed my mother’s brutal murder and lived for three days trapped with her butchered body. Because of my father’s deception—however well meant—I had never been able to speak of it. It had been left to fester inside me, an oozing wound poisoning me from within. The stark truth of that was as terrifying in its own way as the memory itself. Of course, there could be no escape from it, but even so, every instinct I possessed spurred me to flee.

A well of darkness beckoned. I leaped into it, racing away from the hideous scene, running with all my strength. My breath came in gasps, my heart beat frantically, but I ran on and on, heedless of the sharp stones tearing at my feet, of the cold and damp, of the endless night that threatened to swallow me forever. On and on I ran until at last I could run no more. I collapsed and lay still, my arms wrapped around my upturned knees, trying to make myself as small as possible so that I might, at long last, disappear.

*   *   *

“Francesca?”

A man’s voice—deep, familiar.

“Francesca, can you hear me?”

Odd question. Why wouldn’t I be able to?

Slowly, I opened my eyes to find myself staring at blades of grass directly in front of me, illuminated by the glow of a torch. So close were they that I could make out each separate, glistening drop of dew clinging to them. I stared at them in fascination. If I had the capacity to move, I had no desire to do so.

Strong arms lifted me. I was wrapped in a cloak, held against a broad chest, carried.

“Cesare?” My voice came out as no more than a croak. A flicker of fear stirred in me. What had happened?

“Hush,” he said and walked on, up a flight of steps, down a hallway, past stone-faced guards, into rooms I recognized as his own.

I winced as he sat me down on the side of the bed. My feet throbbed, and the rest of me was stiff and aching. I looked up to find him standing over me. His Eminence, thankfully not in his crimson clerical regalia but casually dressed in a loose shirt and trousers, stared back. He looked at once displeased and worried.

Honest confusion drove me to ask, “What has happened?”

“You will have to tell me, for I have no idea.” Without waiting for a reply, he gestured to his valet. That hapless fellow, who I only just then realized was hovering in the background, was holding out a silver tray. Cesare put a goblet in my hand and closed my fingers around it.

“Drink,” he ordered.

Vaguely, I remembered wanting a drink. Or several. Perhaps I had gotten drunk. My head hurt, but not with the deep, resonate throb of a serious hangover.

I started to sip the brandy, than thought better of it and took a long swallow. Though the liquid burned going down, it also revived me. Belatedly, I became aware that I was wearing only Cesare’s cloak and a nightgown. My feet were bare. They were also cut, bloody, and dirty.

Slowly, I said, “I don’t understand. What happened?”

“I came to your rooms an hour ago. I assumed you would be asleep, but there was no sign of you. Fortunately, you had been seen by several of the guards. They were able to point me in the right direction.”

“Where?”

“Running, as one said, ‘as though pursued by demons.’” Before I could respond, he added, “Don’t worry, they won’t say anything.”

I hadn’t thought of that, caught as I was by the sudden return of memory. The nightmare … my struggle to escape …

“They should have stopped you,” Cesare went on. “For their failure, they are being posted elsewhere.”

I didn’t inquire as to where the men were going, there being so many unpleasant possibilities. Instead, I concentrated on the problem at hand: namely, reassuring Cesare that I was not entirely mad. That was complicated by the fact that I was not at all certain of that.

“This must look very odd to you,” I began.

“Let me see your feet.”

“I can take care of—”

“Damn it, Francesca, do as I say!”

Reluctant to anger him further, I obeyed. At once, Cesare seized my feet in his hands and looked at them carefully.

“You couldn’t possibly have done this much damage going only so far as the garden.”

“Is that where you found me?”

He nodded. “Do you remember where else you went?”

I shook my head. “I only know that I had the nightmare and I had to run. This has never happened before.” The tremor in my hand made it difficult for me to raise the goblet again but I managed and downed the rest of the brandy.

“I have heard of people walking in their sleep,” Cesare said.

“I wasn’t walking; I was running.”

“To where?”

“I have no idea.”

He made a sound of dismay—or was it disgust?—and let go of me. Turning to the valet, he said, “Bring water, soap, and bandages. Then go to Donna Francesca’s quarters and find her some clean clothes.” The man was about to obey when Cesare held up a hand, stopping him. To me, he said, “Where is your knife?”

“My knife?” I truly was bewildered. The circumstances were worrisome to be sure, but Cesare seemed more upset than was justified, and his mind appeared to be darting about in odd directions.

“The knife I gave you,” he said. “The one you have used on more than one occasion. Where is it?”

I didn’t know, but I could guess. “Under my pillow.” Where I always kept it at night, as he had reason to know.

“Bring that as well,” Cesare ordered the valet, who hastened off with an understandable look of apprehension.

“Why this interest in my knife?” I asked when he was gone. As I spoke, I swung my legs onto the bed in the vain search for a more comfortable position. The brandy helped, but the more aware I became, the more I hurt from head to toe.