The Borgia Mistress: A Novel (29 page)

Barely had I finished than weakness threatened to overwhelm me. I only just managed to bandage the wound with clean strips of linen before I sagged where I sat.

We were all of us exhausted, but the night was far from over. Convinced that Herrera at least would not die immediately, Cesare dragged himself off for a much needed conversation with his father. David and I remained at the bedside. From time to time, I got up to check the Spaniard’s pulse and make sure that he was not becoming feverish. It would be days yet before I could be certain there would be no infection, but I was beginning to believe that Herrera had at least a chance of living that long.

Considering how we had found him only a few hours before, that was remarkable. A surge of gratitude went through me for the others who had played a part in saving him: Cesare; David; Erato, who had so unexpectedly helped me; Renaldo; Vittoro; and more. Without them, the outcome would have been far different.

Sitting there in the darkness beside Herrera’s bed, listening to David’s soft snores, I realized that Sofia might be right in trying to persuade me to use my skills for healing, at least some of the time. Despite the darkness within me, I felt a sense of satisfaction and even a kind of happiness unlike any I had ever known before. All that might prove to be no more than a momentary reprieve if the Spaniard took a turn for the worse, but just then I was content to think only of what was, not of what might be.

Cesare came back a short time later. He stood beside the bed for a few minutes, touching his hand to Herrera’s brow and looking at him. When he was satisfied that all was as it should be, he slumped down in the chair beside mine.

With a glance at David, who continued to slumber, he said, “The abbess is being held in her quarters.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Not in a cell?”

He shook his head. “My father does not think it wise for people to be told that the supposedly holy woman they have been making so much of is actually a heretic assassin.”

Borgia, as usual, had a point. Still, I wondered how long the secret could be kept. “What of the men who were at Tanners Lane?”

“They have been told to say nothing, but privately the word is being given that the abbess had a visitation that took her to that place, whereupon she discovered that Herrera had been the victim of a foul attack no doubt perpetrated by our enemies and Spain’s. Thanks to her intervention, he was saved.”

I sat up straighter in the chair and stared at him in disbelief. “
Her
intervention?”

He sighed deeply. “Tomorrow, there will be a day of prayer during which we are all enjoined to beseech Almighty God to restore His faithful son, Don Miguel de Lopez y Herrera, to full health and strength. Unfortunately, Mother Benedette will not be able to attend. She is in seclusion, withdrawn from this world so that she may pray and fast without distraction.”

I shook my head in disgust but not surprise. Borgia could not risk the truth about the “holy woman” ever becoming known. If people realized that there were surviving Cathars, if they learned anything of their beliefs … The threat that the Church had thought extinguished centuries ago could flare up again and set off a conflagration such as had never been seen before.

“What does he intend to do with her?” I asked.

Cesare shrugged. “First and foremost, he wants to know who sent her and why. After that, if she’s still alive, she will be executed.”

Perhaps I should have felt some twinge of gladness at the thought of her suffering, but none came to me. Instead, I said, “I have never been able to understand why anyone believes that information gained under torture is reliable. Won’t people say anything just to make it stop?”

“So I would think,” Cesare agreed. “But in this matter at least, my father apparently believes that the traditional methods are best.”

I had my doubts that Borgia thought any such thing. To the contrary, the suspicion stirred in me that he was, as usual, several moves ahead of most everyone else. But not, I resolved, of me. Not this time.

Standing, my legs shaking with weariness, I said, “I will be back as quickly as possible. If there is any change with Herrera, send word to me.”

Surprised, for I surely looked too exhausted to be going anywhere, Cesare asked, “What are you doing?”

“What Il Papa wants, of course.” Before I could think better of it, I hurried from the room.

29

“I have urgent business with His Holiness.”

The guard in front of the papal apartments stared at me. He looked like a man torn between his duty and his desire to be anywhere but where he was, face-to-face in the middle of the night with the Pope’s poisoner.

“Urgent business,” I repeated.

He swallowed, managed a nod, and opened the door behind him far enough to alert a secretary. The priest who emerged was young enough to be more arrogant than able. He looked at me and frowned. “His Holiness has retired for the night.”

“No,” I replied with absolute certainty, “he has not.” Whatever Borgia had told his servants, too much had happened for him to have sought his bed. He would be chewing events over, mulling his best moves, as only the finest insomniacs can do.

The priest shrugged. “On you, then,” he said and stood aside for me to enter.

Borgia was fully dressed and seated at his desk. He looked up as I appeared.

“Ah, Francesca. I thought you might pay me a visit. Sit down.” When I had done so, he asked, “How is Herrera?”

“Alive. I have given him a medication to strengthen his heart. So far it seems to be working. The wound to his side bled a great deal, but the lung is intact. I have closed the wound and we will watch for signs of infection. Cesare has sent for a Moorish physician who can deal with the injuries to the hands and feet. All in all, there is reason to be moderately optimistic.”

“I am glad to hear it. What a terrible fate to befall any man. He has you to thank for saving him.”

“Really? I thought the credit went to the holy Mother Benedette?”

Borgia leaned back in his chair and regarded me narrowly. “It’s not like you to be petty, Francesca. What is it that you want?”

I did not hesitate but met him straight on, as I had made up my mind to do. “I know that you plan to put her to the question. I ask that you let me speak with her first.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Need I point out how thoroughly she duped you?”

I winced but did not attempt to deny it. “No one knows that better than I. All I ask is a chance to redeem myself.”

He considered for a moment, then spread his hands, as though granting a favor out of the pure magnanimity of his soul. “All right, but don’t take too long with her. I have told the torturers to be ready at dawn.”

“Do they know they will be dealing with a Cathar?”

He looked puzzled by the question. “It wouldn’t make any difference if they did. Their job is to get information. They aren’t required to understand it. In fact, the sooner they forget everything they hear, the better.” His gaze sharpened. “Some would consider that a virtue worth acquiring.”

“Whereas others believe that knowledge is the ultimate power,” I countered. Borgia certainly did, judging by the pains he went to in order to acquire it.

“An excellent reason why it must be kept beyond the reach of those who would misunderstand or misuse it,” he said. “Now if there is nothing else—” He flicked a hand in dismissal.

I ignored that and asked, “Did you know that the Cathars still existed?”

He hesitated long enough for me to conclude that he did not intend to answer. Finally, he said, “There have always been rumors that a remnant survived.”

I thought of the secret texts preserved so carefully in the Mysterium Mundi. Against the day when a formidable enemy might rise to challenge Rome again?

“Rumors or fears?” I asked.

Christ’s Vicar glared at me. “The Church does not fear, Francesca. The Church instills fear when that is necessary, in order to assure that our sheep do not stray from the one, true path into the mouths of wolves. That is why the Cathars were crushed and why they will never return.”

I drew myself up, facing him directly. “With all respect, Your Holiness, we both know that they already have returned. There is no reason to believe that the ‘abbess’ acted alone. Who trained her to be so skilled an assassin? Who provided her with poisons and drugs more sophisticated than any I have ever encountered? If your known enemies had such capabilities, you would be long dead.”

He scowled at me. “A thought that trips easily from your lips.”

I brushed that aside and went on. “Yet you knew nothing of the Cathars?”

Grudgingly, he said, “Rumors … nothing more. And no reason to believe that there was any truth to them.”

“Do any of those rumors mention Milan?”

He looked at me closely. “Not that I know of. Some remaining Cathars are said to live in England, others in France, still others in hidden places, dwelling in forests and caves. But it is all just whispers on the wind. Or at least it was.”

I swallowed my disappointment and nodded. “When we return to Rome, I will scour the Mysterium Mundi for every scrap of information about the Cathars. We must be prepared to deal with them again.”

I rose to go, but he forestalled me. Reaching into a drawer of his desk, he withdrew a small wooden box and held it out to me.

“This was taken from your abbess’s quarters before I ordered her secured there. In light of what you have just said, I have every confidence that you will find it of interest.”

Carefully, I opened the box, revealing a dozen glass vials, all closed but several with broken seals indicating that some of their contents had been used. Among them would be the poison capable of stopping hearts between one beat and the next. Others would contain the drugs the abbess had used on me and possibly the Cathar elixir. Borgia was making a gesture of faith in entrusting them to me, but he would also expect me to investigate them thoroughly.

Girding myself for what that would involve, I inclined my head. “I will let you know what I learn.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and dismissed me with a wave. I secured the wooden box in my rooms before crossing to the apartment where Mother Benedette was being held. Two men-at-arms stood out in front, ostensibly to protect her from being disturbed at her prayers. I had no doubt that there were others below, in case she took it into her head to go out a window, as I had briefly considered doing.

“I have His Holiness’s permission to speak with the prisoner,” I said.

One of the guards unlocked the door and stood aside for me to enter. I did so with more nervousness than I cared to admit even to myself. Not only had Mother Benedette well and thoroughly duped me, as Borgia had so kindly pointed out, she had also forced me to confront my worst fears and most hellish memories. The scars from that would remain for a very long time to come.

Yet I was determined to face her calmly. Still dressed in her singed habit with the wooden rosary and cross secured around her waist, she was seated in a tall chair. Her hands were clasped in her lap and she appeared almost asleep, but she stirred as I entered. Seeing me, the woman who had plotted to destroy everything I was sworn to protect smiled as though we were the best of friends.

“Francesca. I hoped that you would come.”

Staring at her, I had to wonder how I had ever believed that she was old enough to have known my mother. Without her wimple and veil, she looked only a few years my senior.

I pushed that thought aside and walked across the room and took the chair opposite her. With pride in the steadiness of my voice, I asked, “Would you care to tell me your real name?”

The question seemed to amuse her. “Do you imagine that what we are called in this world has any significance at all? Only our soul name matters, and it is not to be uttered here.”

I had no intention of engaging in a discussion of Cathar beliefs. “Mother Benedette it is, then. His Holiness is determined to find out who sent you. He intends to have you tortured.”

“Do you intend to watch?”

Rather than rise to the bait, I said, “We can parry questions until I accept that there is no purpose in my being here and leave. Is that what you want?”

For a moment, I thought she would not answer, but something flickered behind her eyes, perhaps a realization of just how badly things could go for her. Quietly, she said, “Why should I tell you anything?”

I took a breath, well aware that what I was about to do would add to the long list of my manifest failings where she was concerned and just might be enough to convince Borgia that he really could do without me.

Before I could reconsider, I said, “Tell me the truth and I will give you an easy death.”

She looked surprised. “You would do that, against the wishes of your master?”

“I would do it for the truth.”

She nodded as though I had just confirmed a deeply held conviction. “I was right about you. You have a rare spirit.”

“Which did not prevent you from using me to your own ends before trying to kill me, but never mind about that. Who sent you here?”

I expected her to refuse to answer at first, to try to play for some advantage, perhaps even her own life. But she did not hesitate. “I don’t know, which if I do end up being tortured is unfortunate. I can try to make up something to satisfy Borgia, but the truth is that I was hired and paid by an intermediary who gave me no indication of whom he was working for. I’m not even certain that he knew. The job could have come through layers of go-betweens.”

A frustrating answer to be sure, and one Borgia was not likely to accept. Yet I knew that in the world of poisoners, what she was describing was often how such matters were handled. I could believe it was the same for assassins in general.

“So you are saying that this was not a Cathar conspiracy? That whoever hired you either knew nothing of your beliefs or simply did not care?”

“I am assuming that they knew nothing. We, the descendants of the survivors who were sent to safety, are raised to live in the world without being detected by it. We accept that we are surrounded by evil and we use it to protect ourselves.”

“Don’t you mean that you contribute to it by being, for example, assassins?”

“We can debate that if you like,” she said. “Or you can simply accept that what I am telling you is the truth.”

“You have no idea who hired you?” I asked her again.

She looked at me directly and did not waver. “I do not.”

“But the intent was to kill Herrera and thereby destroy the alliance?”

“That is my understanding. In addition, you were to be blamed. Borgia would be fatally weakened by the loss of the Spaniards. And you, who had managed to thwart so many attempts on his life, would be gone. The way would be clear to destroy him.”

Though I was loathe to admit it, the plan could have—even should have—worked. Yet I was far from satisfied with what she had revealed thus far.

“The gifts of food, the psalter … you were poisoning me?”

“Drugging you,” she corrected. “The plan was to render you mad so that you would be blamed for Herrera’s death. I would escape safely—always a consideration in such matters, as I am sure you understand. But when I met you, I realized that to merely use you as intended would be a terrible waste.”

“Because you thought I could show you the path?”

She nodded. “Which you have done.”

“I tried to tell you—”

She held up a hand, forestalling me. “I can accept that you do not fully understand what you saw.”

Since I was not sure that I understood it at all, I could hardly argue with her. Instead, I turned to my greater purpose in being there. The dead cannot speak for themselves, but I could do so in their place.

“You killed the kitchen boy, the laundress, and the page?”

“I did.”

“Why? What purpose did that serve?” The seemingly random pointlessness of the attacks, lives snatched away for no reason, haunted me. In my worst moments, in the grip of the darkness within, I had never done any such thing.

She looked surprised. “I did it for your sake, Francesca. Surely you understand that?”

My disbelief must have been evident, for she said, “It is true that it served my ends for people to be frightened by unexplained deaths and looking to you as the possible cause. But there was a higher purpose. I could see that you have been living in a delusion, believing that you can somehow make the world a better place through your own actions and in the process redeem yourself. It was necessary to show you that evil is everywhere. It can strike anywhere, and you are helpless before it precisely because it is the very fabric of existence. In that way, I prepared you to walk the path of light.”

Bile rose in my throat. I did not doubt for a moment that she believed what she said. Lives were nothing to her, being mere encumbrances of the physical world.

“I freed them,” she said, as though I would understand. “As I tried to free you.”

But I had survived to confront her with her crimes. For all the lives I had taken, each and every one still counted with me.

“You also killed Herrera’s servant.”

“Someone had to die after I gave you the psalter. I knew how the drug embedded in it would affect you, and when I saw you leave your apartments—”

“It was you I saw? You followed me?” The shadowy figure I had glimpsed had not been Death itself, as my fevered brain imagined, but an all too real woman bent on murder.

“I must admit,” the “abbess” said with a frown, “I am puzzled as to what happened to the knife. I left it to be found.”