The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (27 page)

“I am not wrong,” I said and prayed that it was so.

Cesare nodded once, curtly, and said, “Then we go.”

Gratitude surged through me, but I had no time to contemplate it. Having made up his mind, Cesare did not tarry. I had to run to keep up with him as he strode through the corridors bustling with guards, servants, and retainers, all hastening to get out of his way, until we came to Herrera’s quarters.

Cesare raised his fist and banged on the door. His summons was answered at once by a servant who, at the sight of His Eminence, bowed low. A rapid-fire conversation followed, all of it in Castilian, therefore much of it incomprehensible to me. In the course of it, a young nobleman, one of Herrera’s retainers, appeared and took over. He and Cesare spoke together for several minutes. I peered around them, hoping to catch sight of David, but there was no sign of him.

By the time they were done, Cesare was frowning. “Herrera left a short time ago after receiving a note,” he told me. “He didn’t say where he was going or why, and he wouldn’t allow anyone to go with him. But he did appear very excited, even elated.”

My stomach clenched. The Spanish emissary was not inclined to go anywhere without a retinue appropriate to his dignity. That he had suddenly done so suggested that something was very much amiss.

Cesare must have thought the same, for he turned to Renaldo, who had followed us and was listening intently.

“Find Captain Romano. Tell him that I want to speak with him.”

As the steward rushed off, Cesare turned to me. “Listen to me, Francesca.”

How could I not when he was speaking with all the authority of a prince who—never mind his youth—regarded himself as superbly endowed to decide all things?

“You are not well, that is obvious,” he said. “Go back to your quarters, lie down, and rest. Vittoro and I will handle this. We’ll find Herrera and get to the bottom of whatever is happening.”

I had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing, but rather than risk trying his pride too far, I responded as meekly as I could manage. “Where will you look for him?”

Cesare hesitated. Evidently, he had not yet gotten that far in his thinking. Still, he was never at a loss for an answer. “He could be on the training field, or he could have gone off to sketch a building, or—”

“Pardon me, but didn’t his man say that he was excited, even elated? What would account for that? What is so important that he would rush off on his own without companions? When has he ever done that before?”

“I don’t know.”

“The note he received was from Mother Benedette; it had to be. She would never take the risk of killing him here in the palazzo. They’ve gone somewhere else.”

“Where?”

I took the question as his way of admitting that I was not to be sent off to bed quite yet. Quickly, I said, “The abbess and I met several times at Santa Maria della Salute, on the far side of the piazza.”

“Show me,” Cesare ordered.

Without waiting for Vittoro or anyone else, we made haste to the church. I was breathless and gasping when we came through the heavy wooden doors into the incense-laden air. Sagging against a wall, I peered into the dim interior. To my despair, it appeared to be empty.

Cesare paced down the aisle dividing the apse, glancing into the shadows near the side altars. When he reached the main sanctuary, he called down the distance separating us.

“There is no one here.”

“I realize that.”

“But there will be soon for vespers. If she did draw him to this place, she would not have lingered.”

As we stepped back out into the piazza, I said, “They must have gone elsewhere. If we don’t find them in time…”

But how were we to do so? Viterbo was a small enough place compared to Rome, yet it was still a labyrinth of twisting streets and huddled buildings. We could search for hours, even days, with no hope of discovering Herrera.

But wait. If I was right and Mother Benedette did intend to destroy the alliance, she would not want to conceal Herrera’s death. On the contrary, she would have to make it known.

If only I knew more about where she had gone and what she had done in the town. But one thought did occur to me. “How many convents are there in Viterbo?”

His Eminence looked at me as though I truly were mad. “How could I possibly know that?”

“She was staying at a convent before I convinced her to move into the palazzo. That might be where she took Herrera.” Or it might not be; there was simply no way to tell. If I made a mistake, sent us off in the wrong direction, any opportunity we had to save the Spaniard would be gone. There would be only one chance.

The sun was lowering behind the roofs of the town; time was running out. Once darkness fell, all hope of recovering Herrera would be gone. Vittoro was coming at a run down the steps of the palazzo, flanked by a troop of men. Cesare would give orders, and the search would begin. But where? Which way? I had caused all this by trusting Mother Benedette. Whatever happened would be my fault.

Tears blinded me. Another woman would have prayed, but as I have said, I have no skill at that. Even so, just then I saw in my mind the silver path and the vast, mysterious light that lay beyond it. My tears did fall, but they washed the veil from my eyes.

“Forget the abbess,” I said. “Find the fool.”

27

“David and I argued over Mother Benedette. He thought there was something wrong about how she was behaving, but I wouldn’t listen to him. If I know him as I think I do—please God let it be so—he’s been learning everything he could about her.”

“Where can we find ben Eliezer?” Vittoro asked.

“There’s a tavern he favors. Come, I’ll show you.”

Vittoro begged off, saying that he would roust out more men and prepare them to search. He arranged to meet up with us as quickly as possible.

At that hour, the proper folk of Viterbo were in their homes, preparing for their suppers and their beds. The most devout were in church to hear vespers. Which left everyone else to drink and revel in peace. David was sitting over a cup of wine and a modest meal when Cesare and I found him.

He frowned at the sight of us. “What’s wrong?”

Quickly, I told him. Before I was done, he was shaking his head in dismay. “I shouldn’t have left Herrera, but I thought if I could find something that would convince you that the abbess couldn’t be trusted—”

“Did you learn anything?” Cesare asked.

David hesitated. “It sounds crazy, but Francesca has a friend here in town, apparently. Name of Erato. She heard I was asking about an abbess and she sent for me. She claims a nun has been renting a room in the back of a brothel not far from the market.”

I stared at him in bewilderment. “That can’t be right. Mother Benedette is an abbess. She has been staying at a convent in the town.”

There were stories about nuns turning their convents into brothels, but they always seemed to involve sisters who dared to resist efforts by local priests and prelates to seize property left to the holy women or to otherwise assert their absolute authority over them. Though upon examination none of the tales had ever proven to be true, that was not to say there weren’t many women forced to take holy vows who found chastity unbearable.

So, too, there were many actual brothels on church property. Perhaps that accounted for Erato’s confusion. Although it was hard to believe that she could make such a mistake.

“I was going to visit the place,” David said. “Try to find out if there was any possibility that the abbess had been there. But now—”

“She isn’t an abbess.” Even as I spoke, the full magnitude of how gullible I had been almost choked me. I had imagined her a secret Cathar hidden among the clergy, as it was said certain Jews concealed themselves for safety even as they remained adherents to their faith. How readily she could have used her position of authority to pursue her own designs. But if it had all been a lie … She would have been taking too great a risk to try to pass among women of the cloth, who would have noticed any error in her behavior. Better to hide among the outcasts of society, who knew better than to question anyone.

“I know where they are.”

Both men looked at me in surprise. “Are you sure?” Cesare asked.

I nodded. “She lured Herrera out of the palazzo by promising him evidence he can use to be rid of me.”

David glanced from me to Cesare and back again. I saw the swift calculation behind his eyes. He had been in the Spaniard’s company long enough to have at least a hint of how things stood between the beloved nephew and His Eminence.

Cesare did not wait. He tossed a handful of coins on the table and strode out of the taverna. David and I followed. Outside in the lane, a dank wind was blowing.

Beyond tired, stomach empty, every bone and muscle in my body aching, I stood for a moment, struggling to gather my fractured thoughts.

“Francesca?”

Belatedly, I realized that Vittoro had arrived with his men. They were all waiting for me.

“Where are we going?” Cesare asked.

Dread weighed on me, a great pall that threatened to crush all beneath it.

“To Hell,” I said and showed the way.

*   *   *

“We can’t take torches in there,” Vittoro said. “A single spark and the whole place will go up like so much kindling.”

We stood on Tanners Lane, looking at the ramshackle building where I had found Magdalene. In the darkness lit only by the torches the guardsmen held, it appeared like a black hole against the darkening sky. Night was almost upon us. I could make out a few shuffling, hunched figures fleeing at our approach but nothing more.

“Hooded lamps, then,” Cesare said.

Several months before, as a sop to his anger at being forced to don the red skirts of a cardinal, Borgia had agreed to allow Cesare to form a military company under his own leadership. The concession, if that was what it was, merely recognized an existing reality. For several years Cesare had been ranging far and wide with a band of companions, living off the land, practicing battle maneuvers, and generally preparing for the life he really wanted to live. With the instincts of a true war leader, he had introduced several tactical innovations, including training his men for nighttime incursions. To that end, he had caused to be designed and built small portable oil lamps, each with a flame shielded by metal strips. The lamps gave only enough light to see a few yards ahead, but they had the virtue of being far less visible than even a single torch. As a side benefit, they were also far less likely to cause a fire.

Cesare’s men remained in Rome, where they were watching over his interests, but apparently he had shared his thoughts on such matters with Vittoro, for the captain had equipped Borgia’s own household guards with the lamps. They were produced and lit as I watched. By their dim light, I could not help but notice that the faces of the men holding them were tense and anxious. I couldn’t blame them. The thought of going back into that place under any circumstances filled me with horror, but to do so in darkness …

“Could I have one of those?” I asked.

With a lamp in hand, I turned to look at the building. No lights shone within. Rank poverty offered its own protection against fire.

We proceeded quickly. Cesare took several men to check the shed where Magdalene’s body had been found as well as other nearby structures. A larger group of guards spread out down the lane toward the tanners’ shops. To a man, they had their cloaks pulled over their mouths and noses in an effort to block the stench. The occupants of the shops clearly knew of our presence; they had pulled their shutters closed and snuffed their own lights.

In near total darkness, I started toward the building. At once, Vittoro and David joined me.

“Is there any chance,” the captain asked, “that I can convince you to remain outside while we search?”

“I was about to ask you the same,” I replied. At his chiding look, I explained, “The more clamor we make, the likelier the abbess is to realize that we are on her trail. If Herrera is still alive, he won’t be once she realizes that. I should go alone. The rest of you wait out here in case she attempts to flee.”

I wasn’t being entirely serious, realizing as I did that there was absolutely no chance of Vittoro’s agreeing to any such thing. But I hoped he understood that there was also no possibility of my remaining outside.

The captain sighed. Not unkindly, he said, “She can kill him while we stand here arguing. Let’s go.”

Entering the building, I tried to remember the interior as best I could. On my previous visit, with at least some daylight seeping through the cracks in the walls, it had been difficult enough to see anything. Now, even with the help of the lamps, it was all but impossible.

Even so, I did think to warn both men. “Be careful; the ceiling is very low.”

They ducked just in time to avoid cracking their heads. David, the tallest of us, had to bend so low that I feared he would end up walking on his knees. We proceeded slowly. Having some small experience with the place, I led the way. We passed stalls that appeared at a glance to be empty but where I was sure the poor creatures I had seen before were huddling deep in the shadows, praying that we would pass them by without notice.

Many others appeared to have fled entirely. Though it was difficult to be sure, I saw far fewer signs of habitation than I had before. Only the strongest and the bravest could have run off into the night. I wondered where they were hiding even as I forced myself to keep going. We came at last to the stall where I believed I had found Magdalene. It was empty; there was no sign that anyone had been there since her death.

“He isn’t here,” I said, unable to conceal my despair.

Vittoro leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees, and breathed through his mouth. David sat down with his back to a wall and appeared to be trying not to breathe at all. Both men, tough and experienced as they were, looked ill. I felt the same way. With each passing moment, the chances that I was wrong increased. I realized that I was straining for any sound from outside that Herrera had been found—dead or alive—and forced myself to concentrate on what was in front of me instead.

“There is much of the building we haven’t searched,” I said. “We should split up and cover as much ground as possible.”

Vittoro looked disposed to argue, but David forestalled him. “Francesca is right. This place is a labyrinth. Our best chance is to divide it—left, right, and down the middle. Objections?”

The captain, who was accustomed to giving orders rather than taking them, hesitated; but after a moment, he nodded. “Any sign of trouble, don’t keep it to yourself, all right?”

We all agreed and speedily took our leave. David went right, Vittoro went left, and I stayed where I was, resolved to work my way down every inch of the center of the building. I confess to a profound sense of unease as solitude closed in around me. The darkness, the stench, and the all-pervasive miasma of hopelessness weighed on me intolerably. I felt as though I had been buried alive.

Panic curled at the edges of my mind. I steeled myself as best I could and pressed on. In the maze of close-packed stalls, I could become disoriented all too quickly. To prevent that, and to protect myself in the event of a sudden attack, I withdrew my knife from its sheath. By keeping the tip of the blade scrapping along the wall to my right, I left a tracing of my path.

It was a trick I had learned from Cesare when together we had penetrated the catacombs beneath Saint Peter’s the previous year. On that occasion, we had stumbled across the mass skeletal remains cast aside as rubble when the Great Constantine built the basilica a thousand years ago. I had to hope that I would encounter no such reminder of omnipresent death in Tanners Lane.

Continuing on through the darkness, I looked in each stall I passed. Here and there, frightened faces peered back. Worse were the blank, empty stares of those whose minds seemed to have deserted them entirely. I picked up my pace, only to slow again as I became aware of the faint noise all around me. With such limited sight, and with my sense of smell simply overwhelmed by the stench, my hearing seemed to become more acute. A faint but growing cacophony of moans, groans, sighs, and whimpers filled the fetid air.

Horror crawled under my skin. My mouth tasted of bile. I needed every ounce of will that I possessed to keep going, and even then I almost did not manage it. Voices shouted in my head: “Turn back! He is not here! You cannot find him! Go back! Run!” Most insidiously of all, reason itself insisted that someone else could find Herrera. Someone better suited to the task. Cesare, Vittoro, David—it was best left to any or all of them. Indeed, they would be relieved if I withdrew.

Reason, it seemed, did not have much sway with me. I kept going. Deep inside the building, with nothing to guide me out again but the thin scratching of my blade, I called out softly, “Don Miguel? Are you here?”

Up until then, I had tried to refrain from making any sound so as not to alert Mother Benedette to my presence. But with time rushing past and my own fear mounting, I felt that I had no choice.

Again, I called, “Don Miguel?”

I heard a groan, not unlike all the others except for what seemed a particular note of anguish and urgency.

“Don Miguel?” I called louder as caution fell away. If it was him, he was in distress.

I heard a broken sob in a voice I thought must surely be a man’s for all that it was too weak to be sure.
“Ayúdame … por el amor de Dios me ayúda.”

Castilian again, but close enough to Catalan that I could understand. “Help me … for the love of God, help me.”

I surged forward, heedless of any effort to mark my trail. My knife was in one hand, the lamp in the other as I came round a corner amid the stalls and found myself face-to-face with a vision out of a nightmare. Herrera was there all right, and blessedly still alive, although it was impossible to guess how much longer he could remain that way. Mother Benedette must have drugged him as she had me. In his helpless state, she had stripped him naked. In a glance, I saw that his clothes were thrown in a nearby corner.

As for Don Miguel himself …

He lay on the floor, his legs crossed at the ankles, his arms flung out at right angles to his body. His hands were turned up with the palms toward the ceiling. I needed a moment to understand why there appeared to be dark stains seeping from the center of his palms across the wood slats. And from his side. And from his feet.

When I did finally grasp what I was seeing, I could only be glad that I had emptied my stomach so thoroughly a short time before. Even so, the impulse to retch was all but overwhelming. Pity and revulsion struck me with equal force as I stared at the horror before me.