The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (28 page)

Don Miguel de Lopez y Herrera, beloved nephew of Their Most Catholic Majesties, had been nailed to the floor of Hell in a crude parody of Christ’s crucifixion. Left there much longer, he would most certainly bleed to death, if he did not die from shock first.

Not even the denizens of Tanners Lane would be able to conceal what had happened. In their own terror at discovering the body, word would spread and he would be found. The obvious victim of a madwoman who, I saw, had left behind a cloak by which she could be identified. My cloak, the one I had wrapped around Magdalene when I left her in the shed … after promising that she would be safe.

All thought of any disagreement I had ever had with Herrera fell away. Even so, I hesitated. His wounds were grievous. If I acted too hastily, I could worsen his condition beyond recovery.

I had to do something, but as I struggled to determine what that should be, a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye distracted me. For just a moment, there in the stygian darkness of the crib, I thought I saw Mother Benedette. She was standing just outside the stall, as though she had been nearby. Her face, framed by her wimple, was startled. Clearly, she had not expected to see me.

Her reaction, more than anything else, convinced me that I was not hallucinating. For whatever reason, perhaps to make sure that he really did die, the abbess had lingered at the scene of her crime. That, I promised myself, would prove to be a fatal mistake.

With a cry, I leaped after her.

She was quicker by far than I had expected. In an instant, I lost sight of her in the darkness. But I could hear her, scrambling frantically as she sought to elude the one she had presumed to be safely dead.

I wasted neither breath nor effort calling out for her to stop. Instead, I plunged on, heedless of every other consideration. I could think of nothing other than the absolute imperative that she not escape me. The abbess, of course, had precisely the opposite intent. She ran with speed that belied what I had assumed to be her age. As I had been wrong in all else, I had to recognize that I was wrong about that as well.

Twisting, turning, racing through the maze that was Hell’s crib, she managed to stay a few yards ahead of me. I held on to the lamp for dear life, for only by its faint illumination did I have any hope of keeping up with her. Perhaps because she had laid her plans so well, she seemed to know her way through the maze far better than I could ever hope to do. Too soon, before I had barely begun to tire, she ran toward a portion of wall that appeared to have collapsed outward. With a backward glance at me, she vanished into the darkness beyond.

I went after her. Without pause, without thought, I jumped the distance to the ground and followed the shadow vanishing toward the lane. Off in the distance, I could make out the shapes of men moving amid the buildings. I thought to call out to them, but my chest was tight, my breath strained. The chances that they would hear me were faint.

Just then, the sliver of the moon moved from behind curtaining clouds, and I saw her. She was looking back over her shoulder again, directly at me. For a moment, I wondered if she had some power to see in the dark better than I could, but I dismissed the thought. It is always a temptation to ascribe unnatural powers to one’s adversaries. Equally, it is always a mistake, sowing confusion and fear as it does. Far too many of my own enemies have made that error, for which I am grateful.

I ran on, feet pounding, determined to close the distance between us. What was I thinking as I did so? Of Herrera, perhaps. Of my mother, certainly. Of a world ruled by a god of evil? No, not really. And yet there is no concealing what happened. Whether because of a hump in the ground or debris of some sort, the abbess stumbled.

The moment she did so, without an instant’s thought, I drew back my arm and hurled the burning lamp straight at her.

28

The lamp shattered on impact. Mother Benedette stopped, frozen in surprise, and I did the same. Truly, I have no idea what was in my mind. If I felt compelled to throw anything, it should have been my knife, but, as I have said, I have no skill with it except for close work.

For a moment, nothing happened. And then … I hesitate even to remember, so terrible was it. The oil in the lamp spread across the ground, lapping at the hem of her habit. A spark caught, and licks of flame raced up her skirts. The simple, undyed fabric ignited like a torch. Her white face, distorted in a scream of terror, shone from behind a sudden wall of smoke and fire.

In fact, none of that was real. True, the flame did catch and it did singe the bottom of her habit. She did react with horror, as any sensible person would, and she did make at once to stamp it out. But whether because of the lingering effects of the drugs she had given me or the darkness stirring within my mind, I saw it differently. Saw what might have been if she had been lashed to the stake as so many Cathars had been and left to burn as they had.

As I feared I would if my many enemies ever had their way.

I screamed. A wrenching, tearing sound that seemed to rend the air itself. For certain, it tore my throat, for I promptly tasted blood. Choking on it, still screaming, I ran at her.

What does it mean to seek to kill and save at the same time? I hated her; I wanted her dead. And I could not bear to see her perish in so hideous a manner. I ran straight into the flames that, in that instant, I truly believed were devouring her.

Later, I found strange patches on my arms, a sore redness almost like the beginning of a burn, as though a fire that existed only in my own mind still had the power to harm me.

She kicked, pummeling me with feet and fists, reaching with her nails for my eyes, but, driven as I was by terror, my strength was greater than her own. We fell together onto the ground and rolled, the sputtering flames snuffed out as we went. In mud and mire, in the filth of Hell, I clung to her. She was alone, and I … I was not. All I had to do was hold on long enough and I would win.

David got to us first. He came out of the darkness, pulling me off the abbess so that he could hold and secure her. Even then, she continued to fight, snarling at him with wild eyes and bared teeth. Her wimple came away. Dark hair tumbled loose. As it settled around her smooth face, I saw at once that she was a much younger woman than I had thought, little older than myself.

What followed was all confusion. Vittoro was there, and Cesare. I tried to explain, but really I needn’t have bothered. Cesare barked orders and the abbess was surrounded by men-at-arms. My last glimpse of her as she was led away was a fierce stare and, I thought, a strangely confident smile.

I remembered Herrera.

“He is inside, badly hurt!” More explanation was needed, but I did not have it to give. Nor was there any time. Heedless of the vise gripping my chest, I grabbed up my skirts and ran with all my strength.

The others followed. Frantically, I reached out and found the thin tracing of my knife along the wall. Following it, running desperately, I came at last to the place where Herrera lay. Scarcely had I done so than I heard the strangled gasps of those behind me. Someone was vomiting; someone else could not stop moaning. I had no idea who they were, nor did I care. All that mattered was that Cesare remained in full control of himself.

Kneeling beside Herrera, he passed a hand over the other man’s brow, looked deeply into his eyes, and said, “We’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

A long sigh escaped the Spaniard. He stared at Cesare a moment more before consciousness mercifully left him.

At once, I bent down beside him. Before Cesare could do anything, I said, “If we are not careful, we will make this worse.”

“For pity’s sake, Francesca, we have to free him!”

I heard the horror in his voice, and the anguish, but I would not relent. Instead, I elbowed him aside and looked to David, who was right behind us.

“We have to release him slowly. If we jar the nails loose too quickly—”

“He could bleed out.” Kneeling beside me, the renegade Jewish leader reached out to help the beloved nephew of the monarchs who had expelled the Jews from Spain, and who would have condemned them all to extinction had that been within their power.

“You’re sure you want to do this, given who he is?” I asked, ashamed of the doubts I had harbored.

David spared me a glance, no more. “It doesn’t matter,” he said and with gentle strength, slowly and carefully lifted Herrera into his arms.

The moment he was free, blood did flow more freely, but not so much that I had to fear we would lose him right then and there. Cesare stepped in quickly to help David. Together, they carried Herrera outside.

I will not dwell on the journey back to the palazzo except to say that we went as slowly as we dared. By the grace of God, Herrera remained unconscious most of the way, although as we made the final push up the hill toward the papal palace, he was groaning almost constantly.

Others had run ahead with word of what had happened. Borgia was at the top of the steps, watching us come. He looked grim and worn, as though events had suddenly caught up with him. I could not help but feel the same. Somewhere in the palazzo, “Mother Benedette” was being held. I would have to talk with Borgia about her before too long, but at the moment I had to concentrate on Herrera. Even so, as we passed His Holiness, I said, “If you want to learn anything from her, leave it until I can get free.”

I needn’t have worried. As much as he had reason to execute her on the spot, Borgia was always able to rise above his private emotions. He merely looked at me through hooded eyes and nodded.

In Herrera’s quarters, Cesare and David together moved him carefully onto the bed. At once, the black-garbed crows hovering in wait moved toward him. I grimaced at sight of the physicians and grasped Cesare’s arm.

“Don’t let them near him,” I entreated. “They’ll bleed or purge him, or both, and he will most surely die.”

Turning on me, he demanded, “Can you do better? You had a hand in bringing him to such a pass, and we both know it.”

I felt the color drain from my face, but I refused to back down. There would be time for me to answer for my part in what had occurred, possibly all of eternity. But not yet.

“David will help me. At the very least, we will do no worse than the physicians, and we may be able to do some good.”

To send some of the most learned men of the papal court away in order to give preference to a witch and a Jew … few would even have considered doing so. To his everlasting credit, Cesare hesitated only a moment. He stared at Herrera, closed his eyes for an instant, and opened them to shout, “Out! All of you, out!”

Although I would never say it to him, just then he sounded uncannily like his father.

“Except you … and you.” He pointed at David and me.

The others went amid much grumbling and backward glares. The physicians would hie themselves off to the papal secretaries, who would listen to them with sympathy, as they, too, detested me. There would be talk of appealing to Borgia directly, but it would come to nothing. His Holiness would remain apart, taking no hand in what transpired until the results were clear.

As the door shut behind them, I took a long breath and tried to decide where to begin. Herrera had yet to regain consciousness, for which I was deeply grateful, but that might be because he was about to slip into extremis. His injuries were grave, the damage extensive. I had no way of knowing how far the stab wound to his side had penetrated. If a lung had collapsed …

“I need items from my quarters,” I said. Specifically, I needed drugs and other substances locked away in the puzzle chest that only I could open. When I explained as much, Cesare ordered the chest to be brought to Herrera’s apartments, along with everything else I required. While I waited, I did my best to assess the Spaniard’s injuries.

The wounds through the palms of his hands appeared to have almost stopped bleeding, but because of the swelling around them, the nails piercing the centers were tightly embedded. So, too, those in his feet. The wound to his side was jagged and deep, but when I leaned close to it, I saw no bubbling in the blood coming from it.

“All right,” I said as I straightened slowly. Both men were watching me. “The wound on his side is the most immediately serious. It has to be cleaned and stitched. As for the others, we must do what we can to prevent infection and hope that in time he can recover some use of his hands and feet.”

“There is nothing else to be done?” Cesare asked.

Regretfully, I shook my head. “I have no experience setting small bones. Very few do. I can try, but in all honesty, I could make the injuries worse.”

As I spoke, I had a sudden memory of Herrera in the arena, his sword flashing as he moved with skill and grace that would have undone most men, just not Cesare. And I wondered at the architectural designs he drew. Would he ever be able to do either again?

“I can give you the names of several Moorish physicians,” David offered. “One or more of them may have such skill.”

A witch, a Jew, and a Moor … If Herrera did manage to survive, would he hear what God was trying to tell him?

“That is all for later,” I said. “Right now, we will have a job just to keep him alive.”

I was even more convinced of that after I placed my fingers, as I had seen Sofia do, on the inside of his wrist and felt the very faint stirring of his pulse there. Leaning close, I put an ear to his chest to confirm what I suspected. His heartbeat was very weak.

“He has lost a lot of blood.” David and Cesare were both looking at me, waiting for me to say what should be done. I swallowed and went on. “Added to whatever drugs Mother Benedette gave him and the shock of what she did…”

I looked down at the Spaniard, whose face already seemed to bear the gray pallor of death. The conviction stirred in me that if I did not try something drastic, he would not see morning.

Slowly, I said, “I have substances in my possession that can be deadly but which, according to Sofia Montefiore, in smaller quantities can be used to heal.”

“How would you know how much to give him?” Cesare asked. I was heartened that he did not dismiss the idea entirely, although I understood that was a measure of his desperation. But I did not have a good answer for him.

“I have a fair gauge of how much would kill him,” I said. “I propose to start with a much smaller amount and see what happens.”

“If he dies—?” David began, but Cesare cut him off.

“Then he dies because of what the abbess did, not because of anything Francesca did to try to save him.”

My throat tightened. After everything that had happened, Cesare’s willingness to trust me took me by surprise. I hurried over to the puzzle chest and worked the combination to open it. From beneath the false bottom, I removed a box containing poisons that I preferred never to use. Each time I had ended the life of a poisoner sent against Borgia, I had made a point of doing it with the very substance intended to kill His Holiness. While I was likely the only person who knew that was my practice, by doing so I retained the sense of being an instrument of justice rather than merely one of death. But I did not fool myself. At any time, I could be called upon to use a poison of my own crafting.

I was prepared to do that, or so I told myself. Yet my hands shook as I removed a vial from the box and held it up to the light, studying the contents carefully. The crumbled, dried leaves of the plant some call fairy cap and others know as foxglove were, according to Sofia, lifesavers for those with poor hearts. I knew only that they could send that organ into a rapid and erratic rhythm before stopping it entirely.

As I have said—several times, I believe—I am not much good at praying. But I said a prayer then, silently asking the God that, contrary to the Cathars, I truly did believe was good to guide my hand.

The contents of the vial were enough to kill Herrera. But in his weakened state, I suspected that half as much might also be lethal. Accordingly, I measured out only a quantity that fit on the nail of my smallest finger. Having added it to a small amount of hot water, I left the leaves to steep while I prepared to stitch up the wound in the Spaniard’s side. By the time I had the equipment for that ready, I judged the tincture of foxglove to be strong enough.

Cesare lifted Herrera so that the Spaniard’s head rested against his shoulder. I leaned forward and slowly, carefully dribbled the liquid into his mouth. At first I feared that he would spit it out, but such was his condition that he appeared insensible to all that was happening. To my great relief, the dosage slid unimpeded down his throat.

When it was done, I stepped back and allowed myself to breathe. But any relief I might have felt would have to wait. As Cesare lowered Herrera carefully back onto the bed, I put my fingers to his wrist once again. At first, I perceived no difference. But after several moments, his pulse seemed stronger. To be certain, I leaned close again and listened to his heart.

“I think it is working,” I said as I straightened.

A great sigh escaped Cesare. He ran a hand over his face, and I realized that he looked older and wearier than I had ever seen him. But there was no time for any of us to rest.

“I must see to that wound,” I said, gesturing to Herrera’s side. Having managed to strengthen his heart, I feared that he might regain consciousness as I worked, but Fortune, so lately absent, smiled on us. Although he did moan several times, Cesare and David managed to hold him steady while I completed what needed to be done.