Wolves in Winter (26 page)

*

The corpses called out the wolves. I was half-dozing, fully dressed, on my truckle bed in the antechamber. The slow whitening of the room showed me it was almost dawn.
Caterina, who seemed not to need rest, was already out on the walls. I had clamped the bolster about my ears, so numbed by the noise that they barely sensed the guns, which still jolted my body
alert with every report. Still, I heard them, calling to me through the sinuous muddle of my dreams.

The passages of the Rocca were deserted, the women at their vigil in the sala, every man on the ramparts, and it seemed strangely peaceful as I passed along the east front, taking the
twisting stair that led to the curtain wall, enclosing what had once been Caterina’s lovely park. My senses were scraped so raw that the cold of the stone beneath my feet rasped at my skin
and I flinched from the icy wet of the walls. The air was full of sleet, which would warm in a few hours to the black rain with which Forli had been cursed since Valentino’s coming. At first
I could hardly make them out, their sodden coats melding with the ground beneath. I no longer knew if I slept or woke. I rubbed my hands over the frozen, bruised plums under my eyes, and the
churned mire beneath the ramparts was alive with them, ears flattened back against their heads, misted with the steam of their panting, silent. They too were waiting.

I managed a rueful smile at the sight of those yellow eyes, feeling in the pull of my skin against my cheekbones how thin and worn I had become. It had been weeks since I had gazed over the
Countess’s shoulder into the looking glass. I stood there, and we watched each other a while. The flames of their eyes swirled from gold to purple to green. I could have drowned there, I was
so weary. I thought that it would have been so easy to walk a little further, to climb down through the sleet and let them take me. They starved. The French had long ago emptied the mountains of
game, there was not a sheep or a cow living within leagues of this infernal place. So many times I had dreamed of them, I thought I belonged there, that they had come for me. But I shook my head,
no, staggering on my feet, swamy and ill with fatigue.

‘Thank you,’ I told them. ‘It won’t be long, now. Wait, and you shall eat.’

*

I came awake to the sound of the walls of the Rocca falling, and they were gone.

It seemed to take me hours to reach my lady. I knew I was awake, yet my limbs seemed to move through the sluggard syrup so familiar from dreams, my muscles refusing to draw me on. I was blinded
with the sleet and the acrid fumes that filled the fortress. When I rubbed my eyes clear I could see two great breaches in the walls, their innards pale and gaping in the first winter light. There
were figures moving up the hill, bringing the beams and ladders that were to carry Valentino’s men inside. I groped and staggered my way back along the wall, following the passage around to
the central rampart. The Rocca was as frenzied now as it had been empty before, the waiting women shrieking, rushing for the courtyard to hide themselves in the outbuildings, guards running up from
the encampment, unstrapping their swords, everywhere the blows of the guns. Caterina was in her apartment, a yellow tunic under her breastplate, her jewel chest splintered on the floor before her,
cramming the pockets of her gown with gold and diamonds.

‘Help me now, Mora. Gather what you can and tie it up. Then put these on.’

She flung a bundle at me. My old boy’s clothes.

‘My lady—’

‘Don’t argue.’ Her voice was brisk, savage, but her eyes were sparkling and her lips were full and wet. ‘You’ve seen what they do to women. You’ll have a
chance dressed like that. Do it and follow me.’

I fumbled at the ties of my gown and bodice and hunched the shirt over my shoulders, using my petticoat to bundle up a rainbow of gems. Caterina was working at a chest in the corner, unwrapping
a skein of black silk.

‘My father’s sword,’ she said, holding it to the window so the blade caught the light, a huge heavy warrior’s sword that she handled as easily as though it were one of
Giovanni’s wooden toys. ‘I carried this with me to Rome when he was murdered, I carried it to Sant’Angelo. The Sforza sword.’ She brought the blade to her lips and kissed it
at the hilt.

‘Should we, should we pray, my lady?’

‘Too late for that, little witch. Besides, I have hopes that I shall see the Borgia Pope in the company of his master.’

She would fight like a lioness, I saw, she would not be cheated of her vengeance. And yet still, she had a care for me. Watching her, so brave, so impossibly proud, I do not think it would be
too much to say that I worshipped her at that moment. I would have followed her anywhere. I fancied I could feel the wolves outside the Rocca coming close to me, that their magic was in both of us.
My fear ebbed back and the flame of it touched me to life, the flame of my people, I thought, the fire-worshippers from the lost forests of the north, so I was filled with a great rush of
exhilaration, a swoop inside me at their fury and their love of the kill. I called them to me then, in a prayer of my own, and I followed her.

The scaling ladders were set up against the walls and the guns finally ceased, though the roar of the men as the French fell upon them was equal to the cannon. The moat was full of flailing
figures. Trying to escape the merciless French swords, some of the troops had tried to swim the moat, and found their end instead in the weight of their armour. My lady’s captains waited for
her on the narrow walkway between the living quarters and the fortress.

‘Fire the magazine,’ she called as she came up, the unsheathed sword in her fist.

‘It’s madness, my lady, it’s too late.’

‘I said, fire it.’

It was her last, magnificent act of defiance. The force of the explosion threw us to the ground, and suddenly the whole of the Rocca was in flames. Even the men battling desperately on the
bridges were shocked into temporary truce by it, incredulous, astonished. The whole of Caterina’s hoarded arsenal, her stores of powder and saltpetre, brought the massive central keep down in
seconds. I felt a rush of air pull over me as the wind was sucked into the vacuum. For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the thud of falling stone, then the French lines ranged on the
Forli side broke and surged forward, screaming for victory. Caterina sprang to her feet, backing to the wall, the sword held out before her.

‘Get out if you can,’ she hissed at me. ‘Get out and get to Florence. Take the jewels for Giovanni. Go!’

‘I will stay with you,’ I whispered. ‘I won’t leave you.’

She gave me a last grim smile. ‘Call me up a storm then, little witch,’ as she turned to face the first of them.

The rain did begin to fall, then. My hands slithered on the wet stone as I crept into a newly blasted hollow in the battlement. I could not fight for her, I could barely lift a sword. It was not
safe, nowhere was safe, but I thought I might as well die there as anywhere. The French assault backed, gathered, came on like a tide, hundreds of men of the garrison were cut down a heart’s
beat from my perch, but my eyes were all for the Countess. She swung her sword as true as any man, fought her way through pools of blood that became lakes, giving back, giving back, but still
swinging, so that when the fighting moved to the north she was left with just a handful of men around her and I could slip down and stand to her side.

We gazed upon it, the battle of Ravaldino. The French came and came, no matter how many of them fell, they pressed forward. Then there was one sharp, guttural cry and a howl came up from the
lines.

‘
Les loups!
’

So I was not the only one who saw them. They were real. They slipped between the smoke and the mist of gunpowder like vengeful spirits, dealing death as sure and swift as the Sforza sword, mad
with the pleasure of it. A huge man came up the ladder beside us, a Swiss giant, his shoulders bordering the breach. His teeth were black in his mouth, in one hand he carried a dripping bayonet, in
the other a severed head, its lips still horribly twitching. I screamed and pressed back, then in one supple bound a wolf was on his neck and he crashed down beneath us. For one crazed moment, I
did believe that it was my doing. I thought I had truly summoned them – the
seid
was amongst us, the wolves could turn them back, Caterina would prevail. The French were faltering,
falling back. Behind the lines their commanders, bewildered, cantered their horses over heaping bodies, screaming them on.

I think I said it. I said, ‘They are here for us, Madonna.’

I think she looked at me, her eyes levelling with mine where she knelt, spent, bracing her hands on the cross of her father’s great weapon. There was a bruise on her cheek, her flesh split
and pouring. I think she shook her head. Then the wolves vanished like a flight of arrows, bolting again for the hills, and the space of their going was filled once more with death.

My lady remained on her knees, she bowed her head and her hand moved across her bloodied armour in the sign of the cross. Finally, she was praying. I could still have run then, but I knelt
beside her and waited until she had finished the Ave. Cautiously, tenderly, I pushed back the sodden strands of her hair, the heat of my own tears burning against the icy rain. I lifted my eyes to
the man waiting quietly, a little to the side of us, and gave the slightest of nods, a quick affirming glance of my eyes. He stepped forward. Caterina took a deep breath, her ribs pounding under
the torn fastenings of her gown. Her hands on the sword danced like insects, but her voice was low and clear as she pronounced the words she had sworn no man would hear from her living lips.

‘
Signor Duca, io sono con te.
’

The French commander took her gently by the shoulder. Courteously, he helped her stand. As we descended the staircase, we passed the Countess’s ladies, surrounded by Valentino’s
guard. She did not acknowledge their deep curtseys. Her face was all begrimed with smoke, the rain cut rivers in it as we passed into the courtyard where I had seen her first, so powerful, so
beautiful. We walked slowly through Satan’s own meadow, bright with flowers and bubbling springs, down to the gatehouse, where a figure awaited us, quite alone, a hat pulled over his face
against the storm. My lady stumbled a little, righted herself, setting her shoulders straight, and reached for the chain at her throat.

‘That’s him, Mora. Give him this. As a token, tell him.’

I could not see Valentino, I thought my lady must be confused. This man was just another soldier, plainly dressed.

‘Sir?’

My voice was choked with tears and powder, the ruby like a coal in my hand.

‘Sir?’

And he turned and in the light of the burning fortress, I saw him.
The fire from the walls catches his face, the brim of the black hat hiding his eyes, but the mouth visible, smiling, a glint
of teeth as white as the single pearl on his collar. Him.

I had thought myself free. I thought that I could choose my fate, but it had only been waiting for me, all along. I was cursed, I could not run. All the time, he had been waiting for me, the man
in black, that cruel smile curled on his soft mouth, the devil who would destroy Italy. Valentino. Cesare. The man in black.

I could not speak. I heard Margerita’s voice,
Dummerer, are you?
I was mute as once I had feigned to be. I could only hold out the jewel and watch as his black leather fingers
spidered across my palm. He barely glanced at me, looking to Caterina as she was led forward.

‘I thank you, madam. I trust you will accompany me now?’

‘Ten thousand ducats!’

A French officer was forcing Caterina to her knees, his sword at her throat.

‘Ten thousand, or I kill her now!’

In one movement, Valentino had the sword ringing on the flagstones and his own blade at the soldier’s neck.

‘You’ll have your ransom. Forgive me, Countess. Allow me.’ He held out his hand to raise her and she, trembling, allowed him.

They led her down to the city, with the fires blazing up behind her and the rain in her bedraggled hair, just as I had seen it.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I
N THOSE FIRST DAYS IN THE PALAZZO NUMAI, IT
seemed that my lady was broken. She would have no one near her but me, and to
me she did not speak, except to bid me close the shutters. Forli was no longer hers, thus no longer of interest. The Countess of Forli slept as the French slaughtered her entire garrison, save
those who had made a bridge of the corpses of their fellows and escaped across the moat. She slept as the Rocca was stripped bare in the cruellest riot that poor battered city had yet seen. Horses,
arms, furnishings, everything was taken and the French quartered their prisoners in search of swallowed gold. Through that night and into the next the slaughter continued, but the Countess was numb
as a toad.

I learned from the maid who brought us linen and water that Caterina’s ladies, at least, had been saved through Valentino’s protection and sent on to Rome. Not that she seemed to
care. She did not wish to know what had become of her people, or even of her things, or to write to her children, or her uncle, though ink and parchment were brought, or to have me wash and dress
her, though a bundle of gowns as fine as anything she had ever owned was sent as a gift from the Duke as though he too had known all along that the Countess would be his prisoner and had them
ready. She would not eat the delicate foods Valentino sent in on his own plate, nor rouse herself to send it away. She merely sat, with her knees beneath her chin in her filthy tunic, staring at
the wall and worrying at her eyes with her grimy fingers, as though she might pull their lids apart to another reality.

My heart ached for her. I tried to cheer her, to interest her in the heaps of letters that arrived hourly. I spoke to her of Florence, where I was sure we would be allowed to return, that city
of her heart which she had not seen since she was a small girl, but she seemed not to hear me, and in a while my own twittering voice sounded foolish, and I too fell silent. I longed to open the
window, to walk a little beyond the confines of the room, but if I moved to do so, she would quietly lay a hand on my arm and I knew I might not. I wished that I had taken her at her word and taken
my chances with the French troops and the road to Florence, but it was too late. In truth, I too was afraid of what lay beyond the door – not the ravaged streets of Forli, where the soldiers
still howled drunkenly; but Valentino. For, now my dreams had reached their source, they vanished. I had thought I had the sight, like my own mother, like poor Margherita, I had taken it as part of
me, even as a gift to compensate for my deformity, but it was gone, quite gone, and my sleep was as clear as that of an exhausted child.