Suicide Kings (11 page)

“He’s mad,” Siobhan said, her voice a whisper in Diana’s ear.

Diana jumped, unaware the Irish woman had drawn so close. “Disfigured and maddened. I pity him. He could be no more wretched a creature.”

Diana read on. “I reached out to drive a knife home in her breast, but you, my God, stayed my hand. You kept me safe from her wrath. For what purpose have you drawn us together? Could Isabella have been right? Do you bring me her daughter to offer me this chance at redemption? Promise me there will be some relief, that you will end my suffering and bring me to the solace of your exquisite presence.” There it ended, the thought no doubt interrupted by their arrival. Before that page in the book were at least a hundred pages of the poor creature’s ravings. Among them might be some clue to her mother’s fate.

“There’s a ladder to the roof.” Niccolo closed the open window with a slam. “What do you have there?”

“His diary. He mentions our confrontation at Madonna delle Grazie.” She glanced at Niccolo. “Who is this man?”

“Pietro Benedetto. He has shown the curse of God in his features since childhood. His father keeps him well in his charity. Until now he has been a harmless aberration, seen out only at night. I’ll need to take the book.”

A fire rose up in the flesh of her face. “Are you mad? This diary may contain the information I have been seeking. You expect me to turn it over to you?”

“With respect, you have no choice, lady. It is evidence in an investigation, and thus is the property of the Republic. I will keep you apprised of its contents as they relate to your mother’s death. You must trust me.”

“A suggestion you offer liberally without providing tangible support,” Diana growled, although there was nothing she could do to prevent Niccolo from scooping up the book and taking it from her clutches. He had no more to say evidently and strode from the room, presumably intent on leaving the building. As he left he did not notice that his efforts had stirred a page that had lain under the book, a separate parchment. It was a small page, and floated toward the ground like a feather. With lightning reflexes, Siobhan snatched it from the air and hid it in her coat before Niccolo could turn to notice it.

Once Niccolo was gone, Siobhan retrieved it and gave Diana a glance.

Diana gasped. The page was the first of a two-page letter. The flowing penmanship was more than familiar. Her mother had written the letter.

Chapter Seven

A Sense of Home

Inside her family palazzo, a warmth greeted Diana that seeped into her cold aching bones and began lulling her to sleep. The sutures in her skull felt like they were splitting apart, and a creeping sense of doom fingered its way into her mind. Eyeballs throbbing, she settled into a plush chair and let the heat soak into the frozen joints of her fingers. She ran her fingers through her long hair.

Agathi, always awake, always present, tended to her needs. “A hot cider, if you would.” Diana shrugged off her coat. “I don’t feel any hunger.”

“You should eat,” Siobhan protested. “Agathi, bring her some soup at least.” She stood over Diana, hands on her hips. “Are you quite all right?”

A quivering hand rubbed tense eyebrows. “Sometimes I just feel my limits. Sometimes I just think we can’t succeed. Sometimes I just miss my mother.”

Siobhan extended the parchment they recovered from Pietro Benedetto’s rooms. “You can read her words.”

Diana looked up at her from under tired eyelids. “Would that make me feel any closer to her? I don’t know the woman who consorted with Pietro Benedetto. She seems to have lived a whole secret life that I knew nothing about.” Still she reached out and took the offered document.

Seeing her mother’s handwriting caused her heart to catch in her throat. The note read:

“My Dear Friend Pietro:

I write this letter with the deepest sorrow. I count you among the closest of my friends. You and I have shared a similar desire to learn about the mysteries of our holy nature, a quest that has led us to this same destination. It is my responsibility, for in my enthusiasm regarding the proffered wisdoms regarding these mysteries I have nominated you and championed your indoctrination in the Sacred Council of Apostles in hopes that we would share together in their enlightenment. In so doing I am accountable for whatever fate befalls you, and I can only hope that you will forgive me my foolishness. I hope that you will accept my contrition and believe me now when I say that believing the Council was ever inspired by the goodness of the light and motivated by holiness…”

And so the note ended, the last words blending into the second page already recovered. Not a long note, overall, and obscure at best in meaning. Diana gathered that her mother had joined this Sacred Council of Apostles, and later brought in Pietro Benedetto as well, both actions she later regretted for unspoken reasons. Had this Council then killed her when she sought to leave? What had her mother been thinking? And how had she, Diana, no idea that her mother had involved herself in what…some kind of cult? A heresy perhaps?

Diana felt sickened at the thought of her mother as a heretic. Perhaps it hadn’t been the Council who had killed her, but the Papacy or the mad friar Savonarola. Then again, wouldn’t either of them have burned her publicly?

Diana’s hand dropped, her energy stores no longer sufficient to even hold the paper up. Siobhan slipped the parchment from between her fingers and read it as well. Siobhan’s face twisted in thought but she said nothing.

“How did the nun get the second page?” Diana whispered as much to herself as Siobhan. She sighed and rolled onto her left side in the chair. “I can’t escape the feeling I am being manipulated, like a pawn in a cruel chess game.”

“Perhaps it is true that you are being manipulated,” Siobhan offered, “but at the very least you are no pawn. If this is a chess match, then you are the queen, strong and commanding.”

“Huh.” Diana smiled sadly. “Sometimes queens are sacrificed.”

“Then at least know your sacrifice will bring down many of your enemies. Sometimes that is the best we can hope for.”

Diana rubbed her head. From down the hall she could hear heavy footsteps, the telltale sound of her father approaching. Her muscles tensed in apprehension. If he knew how she had spent the last two days, he would not approve.

He crossed into the room, still dressed for the working day. He stopped when he saw her, arms folded across his chest. “Diana, where have you been all day?”

“I’ve been out. There’s too much here that reminds me of Mother.” It was the truth, and she hoped he’d have enough empathy to accept that as explanation. Diana couldn’t help but notice that Siobhan had edged quietly out of view. Probably wise.

Remarkably, her father didn’t press her any harder on her whereabouts. “I’ve wanted to speak with you. The Tornabuoni family is holding a dinner in celebration of their son Bernardo, who has just returned from the French court. It will be tomorrow night and I would like for you to attend.”

“Mother has barely been buried for two days. Would it be appropriate for me to be seen dancing and cavorting as if I have already forgotten her?” She felt a vague sense of irritation rising. She could not be sure if she felt irritated because the request was truly unreasonable or simply because it had been made by her father.

Signore Savrano clenched his jaw. “It is for me to dictate how this family will mourn for your mother. I thought this would be a good opportunity for both of us to be distracted. Why, you look like you could use some cause for celebration.”

“I don’t wish to be distracted from the pain of losing my mother. How can you even suggest that?” She knew how to twist his words apart. It was unfair, but it suited her mood.

Her father visibly squirmed, sought for the upper hand Diana had snatched from him. “I’m merely suggesting retaining some social contacts may be good for us both. This would be a difficult time for anyone, and you always take things so hard.”

“How would you know how I take things?” she shot back, picking an unnecessary fight with him. “Do you hear that in the reports from the servants while you count your money at your place of business?”

Her father’s face went red and he breathed in deeply before he responded, “I don’t know where this discussion will get us. I’ve made up my mind that we’re to attend dinner with the Tornabuoni. The good Lord knows I make few enough requests of you. Let me make this request of you now, that you will attend as well and behave yourself.”

“Fine,” she snipped, although she was letting the argument go. “I’ll pretty myself up in a fine dress and make cordial conversation.”

He’d gotten a tacit agreement for what he wanted, but Diana could tell from the crooked set of his jaw that her father was not satisfied. He stood, staring at her for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as if to speak before he thought better of what he might say. At last he spoke, his voice imploring, “Why must you always choose the more difficult path? Why, sometimes, can you just not try to work with the world instead of always against it?”

She looked askance at her father, but did not answer.

He looked down at his hands, which were now clenched in front of him. Looking up he told her, “You are not the only one who misses your mother, you know. I may never have been one much for ostentatious affection, but I loved her in ways that you could never imagine.”

He went silent. Diana felt an intense ache across her chest. She could reach out to him, offer him comfort, or accept comfort from him. Somehow though, he could just not fill that abyss in her life where her mother had been. She could not answer him, could not reach across that gulf for her father. Eventually he turned away and left her. With a sense of regret, she watched him go.

****

What dreams she had that night left no memory, yet Diana woke with a vague uneasy sense that they had been unpleasant and better left forgotten. The piercing light of a new morning crept in over the sill of her window. It was early still. She was not accustomed to waking early and her head ached from the lack of familiar rest. Her body was hyper-alert though, her heart already pumping, muscles tense. A few hours of exhausted sleep each night might be the best she could hope for until the mystery of her mother’s death was resolved.

She lay for a while, letting the tiredness slowly ebb away. Finally, feeling some energy coursing through her, she turned over onto her back. Her right hand fell back against her pillow, and brushed against something made of paper. Startled, Diana propped herself on one elbow.

A small envelope lay on the pillow not far from where her head had rested during the night. In a loose flowing script it was addressed “Lady Diana Savrano.”

With a frown, she sat up and opened the letter. The script read:

“Lady Savrano:

I must plead that you will excuse my intrusion, but I believe the time has come for us to speak. You will be able to find me during sunset at the church at Piazza Madonna delle Grazie, where we met only yesterday. We will be safe of the Sacred Council at that time. Come alone as no one can be trusted.

Sincerest regards,

Pietro Benedetto”

A cold icicle ran down her spine. Who had delivered this note? How had it gotten on her pillow? It wasn’t like her servants to leave a note unannounced in this way.

Now alarmed as much as she was awake she leapt from the bed and marched to the door. Wrenching it open she called for Siobhan and Agathi. Only a moment passed before they both appeared, already dressed for work. They stood silently before her, even Siobhan apparently reluctant to speak.

“Did one of you leave this note for me on my pillow?” She waved the offending article in the air.

Both shook their heads and denied responsibility.

“Do you know what this means?” she asked, voice raised. Her eyes fell on Agathi, who was not in her confidence. If Diana informed her that someone had stolen into her room at night to leave the note, surely Agathi would tell her father about the matter. If her father learned of this she would not be allowed to set foot outside the palazzo again without a ring of guards. “Forget the matter, Agathi,” she told the old woman, forcing her voice to lower. “I must have forgotten the letter, myself. I trust you will say nothing of this.”

The old woman blinked and nodded. “As you say, lady.” She turned and shuffled away, returning to her duties.

Once she was gone, Siobhan whispered, “What is it?”

Diana handed her the note and gave her a moment to read it, watching as her mouth gradually expanded into a larger and larger circle. “He’s been in my room,” Diana pointed out, once Siobhan looked up with wide eyes.

“Dear sweet Lord,” Siobhan exhaled, “how did he manage that?”

Trying to think through the shock, Diana answered, “Either he is a phantom, or my mother entrusted him with a key to the palazzo.” She shook her head, her anger so diffuse she was not sure who was the target. “To imagine him in my room while I slept. He could have slit my throat. Does my father no longer employ armed guards for the palazzo?”

Siobhan shrunk back and swallowed. “If he does have a key and loses it, someone else with more sinister intent could replace him. We must retrieve that key!”

Diana walked back into her bedroom and Siobhan followed. They returned to their normal morning routine, with Siobhan assisting Diana in dressing for the day. “I’ll meet Pietro tonight at the church as he requests. I’ll insist he return the key.”

“It’s too dangerous to go alone!” Siobhan protested. “Even if he is innocent of harmful intent, he might unwittingly lead you into a trap by those who wish to see you injury. Mancini in particular. I should come with you.”

“No,” Diana decided with a shake of her head. “I will go alone.”

“What about the dinner at the Tornabuoni residence? You will be expected there at the same time.”

“Neither the Tornabuoni palazzo nor the church at Piazza Madonna delle Grazie is so far from here. I can meet with Pietro Benedetto quickly and still arrive at the Tornabuoni palazzo with enough time to avoid arousing the ire of my father.” She turned to her servant and friend. “You understand I cannot let a potential source of information such as Pietro Benedetto slip away. Niccolo stole his diary from us, but I might be able to garner the same information from him in person.”