Suicide Kings (16 page)

She slipped the pistol under her pillow, hammer uncocked so she didn’t blow her own head off during a restless moment in her sleep. She kept the candles lit, allowing them to burn down during the night. The flickering glow soothed her. As she lay down, her mind replayed the events of the evening, but she cast these thoughts out, and forced herself to think instead of pleasant moments. Inevitably she remembered her mother and time they spent together. Warm, comfortable moments, now lost forever to the past. Soon she fell into an easy, peaceful sleep, indeed the best that she rested since her mother died.

When she woke in the morning she felt well, confidence reinforced by success in fending off Mancini’s effort to have her killed. Siobhan came to attend to her, the Irish girl’s mood curious and expectant.

“Has anyone called on me this morning?” Diana asked first thing, without offering any explanation.

“No, lady,” Siobhan answered, sounding unusually formal.

Diana felt a twinge of disappointment and surprise. Given the death of Crispino, in particular, she had expected Niccolo to inquire from her what had happened.

“You were home late last night, lady,” Siobhan observed.

Diana slumped her shoulders. “You can cease with the ‘ladies’. If you have something that you want to know, just ask.”

Siobhan grinned. “It had occurred to me that perhaps you might have met a gentleman of interest last night.” She got out a comb and began working on Diana’s hair.

“Several in fact. Let’s see…I met with Pietro Benedetto, the Boar, who kindly informed me that my mother had joined an anti-Papist cult prior to her death. Next, Niccolo was at the banquet where he acknowledged having me followed by Republic gendarmes. I also met the gentleman Bernardo Tornabuoni, who was all face and fluff, and you would have liked him very much I think. I suspect my father would like for me to fall in love with him, and it might not be entirely out of the question. Lastly, two rather unpleasant denizens of the worst side of town managed to behead the gendarme following me and accosted me as well before I blew the head off one and made good my escape back here. I think that covers my evening in the main.”

Siobhan stared at her through the mirror before them for a moment. “So basically an average evening in the life of Diana Savrano.”

“Of late, yes, so it would seem.” She sighed. “In truth, I don’t know where to begin to explain it all.”

“We’ll have to talk seriously about the assault on your person last night. But start with this Bernardo,” Siobhan offered, “the man with the face and the fluff. You said you might love him?”

“I said it wasn’t out of the question. It’s a bit hard to focus on that at the moment with all else that’s going on. Still, he was handsome and intelligent and gallant. It would have been better to have met him at a more convenient time. He is entirely Niccolo’s opposite in most respects.”

“Niccolo? So you care for Signore Machiavelli as well?” Siobhan remarked, with surprise in her tone.

Diana shrugged. “He’s interesting, intellectual, mysterious. He might also very well be responsible for my mother’s death for all I know.”

“Anyone might be responsible for your mother’s death for all that you know. You can hardly use that to rule out any men at this point.”

Diana frowned. “You’re really not known for giving good advice on men, are you?”

Siobhan shook her head. “No, not really.”

“Why are we even discussing this? Did you not hear me? I told you I killed a man.”

“Oh. Well it was bound to happen, wasn’t it? You came very close to killing Mancini not a few days ago, and would have done it too, had you not closed your eyes. It sounds like you have learned that lesson at least.”

Diana shook her head. “You are amazing, Siobhan. Any other woman I have ever known would be horrified to learn what I have done.”

“No other woman you have met is from Ireland. Besides, from what you’ve told me, the bloke had it coming to him. Should we feel sympathy for a man who accosts young women in the middle of the night and murders gendarmes? My only concern is for your own safety. I’m impressed to learn how successfully you defeated these villains. Nonetheless, I would insist on accompanying you on any further excursions.”

Diana looked at herself in the mirror. “Had someone told me a few days past what my life would become, I would have laughed. Until last night I fixed myself upon the goal of saving lives, not taking them! What vexes me most of all is that I am not more bothered by killing a man than I am. Uhh. I make no sense.”

“You make perfect sense.” Siobhan eyed her in the glass. “You’re coming to adjust to a difficult new reality. That you have adapted so well is astonishing, and you have surprised yourself. Take some gladness from this. Were you doubled over in grief at your own actions, it would bode ill for the course you have selected.”

Diana stood. Siobhan was right; she had done nothing but defend herself. Her steeled nerves were a positive sign. How many others might have given up where she had persevered? She felt ready for any adversity that might come.

Diana touched Siobhan’s shoulder, remembering that the other woman seemed to take comfort from such physical gestures. “Siobhan, you might not know much about men, but your counsel in these other matters has been invaluable to me.” The other woman smiled with evident gladness. “Come, let us breakfast. We must discuss our next move.”

Sitting beside Siobhan at breakfast was a breach of convention, but Diana no longer cared. Agathi served them without commenting on the unexpected lapse of protocol. Strawberries with cream sauce were on order for the morning. A tall Moorish slave, Maslamah, came through the hall on business elsewhere in the palazzo. Maslamah’s purview focused on grounds keeping and repair, talents for which his skilled hands and mind were well suited. As he passed through, Diana inquired of her father’s whereabouts.

“He has left for the day, lady,” Maslamah replied with a small bow. “Business interests demanded his attention as I am given to understand, Signorina Savrano.”

“Hmmmph,” Diana murmured, despite that his absence was hardly unusual.

“Still haven’t made peace with your father?” Siobhan inquired before burying her teeth deep in a plump strawberry. “Where do they even get these in the middle of winter?”

“I put on a decent show for him last night I suspect,” Diana replied, dodging the question somewhat. Siobhan appeared to be too enamored of fresh fruit to press the issue. A moment later Maslamah returned.

“Lady Savrano,” he intoned, his face passive as ever, “two Republic gendarmes have called for you at the front door.”

Diana looked at Siobhan, who merely stared back, the plump strawberry obscuring the lower portions of her face. Diana put down her napkin and stood. “Very well.” Indeed, she had been expecting some manner of attention, given events of the previous night. Niccolo was sure to desire an account of what had happened.

She followed Maslamah back to the door where, sure enough, two young gendarmes awaited her. “I am Diana Savrano. Are you here on orders of Signore Machiavelli?”

“No, Lady Savrano,” replied the taller of the two, a young fellow with dark hair and skin, “Friar Savonarola has requested we deliver you for an audience with him.”

The bottom fell out of Diana’s stomach. Dear God, what did the mad friar want with her? Momentarily, she found herself rendered speechless. Finally she found her voice. “Friar Savonarola…am I under arrest?”

“No, lady,” the gendarme replied, although he did not seem shocked by her question, “we were not led to believe such steps were in order. However, my understanding is that your attendance at his request is urgently desired.” So, she was not under arrest, but it could be easily arranged if she proved uncooperative.

“Leave me a moment to retrieve my coat, if you would.” Stepping back inside, Diana asked Agathi to fetch her coat. To Siobhan she briefly explained, “Friar Savonarola wishes to speak with me.”

“Oh my!” Siobhan exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

“Well, I assume it’s not for tips on managing the latest dances. If I’m not back by nightfall, you’ll have to inform my father. Say nothing until then.”

“The household slaves are likely to tell him if he returns before you,” Siobhan observed.

“True. Do what you think most appropriate then, and wish me luck.” Diana slipped into her coat. No point in fetching the pistol. The gendarmes would merely take it off her, perhaps confiscate it for good. With a last look at Siobhan, she left the palazzo and turned herself over to the mercy of Savonarola.

Without word, the gendarmes led her through the streets of Firenze. She kept her coat huddled close against the cold, a fold of the cloth covering her mouth. Being led in such a way, she felt like a criminal taken to trial. How many others had been brought before Savonarola in much the same fashion, only later to hang from the stake burning? She decided it would be in her best interest to play submissive with the likes of Savonarola. If only she could keep her mouth shut. If only…

The guards brought her not to the Palazzo Vecchio, the traditional seat of the Firenze Republic as expected, but rather to the Basilica of Saint Zenobius, where her mother was buried. The great nave was empty, despite that it was mid-morning. Sunlight streamed in through the stained glass windows, illuminating the generous hall as was rarely possible at any other time of day. Cavernous though it was, the room felt warm and inviting, perhaps not least because her mother rested here.

Diana’s eyes were drawn to her mother’s tomb, just to the left of the main doors. A stab of guilt flooded through her. She had not been once to visit the tomb, although perhaps she might be forgiven for that, given that her time had been spent trying to identify her mother’s murderer.

For a moment Diana believed she was alone in the Basilica. Then, across the nave she spotted a prostrate form before the altar, a blur of plain robes against the marble. Unmoving, it might very well have been a corpse.

Slowly she approached the altar, her footsteps echoing across the nave. The robed form against the cold floor did not turn to greet her or otherwise acknowledge her presence. Diana felt increasingly awkward, even as she guessed that might be the intent. She resisted the urge to clear her throat. Her attendance was known, of that she was sure. Patience would be the better virtue for the moment.

At last, like a creature rising up out of the gloom, the figure on the floor rose up to a kneeling position, although he faced away, looking up at the figure of Christ impaled on the cross like a lover toward his lost love. “Upon to us our bleeding angel has fallen,” the figure whispered, even the whisper carrying like a shout on the cold air in the empty chamber. “Love is a colder thing than death.”

Diana said nothing, tried very hard not to make a sound.

“You are Lady Diana Savrano,” the figure said with full voice, turning toward her. The grizzled features and hawk-like nose could only be those of Savonarola. His eyes, joyless and stern, pierced through her.

She met his gaze, refusing to look away. Probably she should look down, be a properly demure female, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Still, she could be respectful at least. She had no reason to call Savonarola an enemy. “I am she, Friar Savonarola.”

He nodded as if satisfied, and pushed himself up to a standing position. He was in his mid-forties perhaps, unhandsome by any standard, skin stretched taut over his bones. “It is your mother, Isabella Savrano, so recently buried in this very cathedral?” He waved his hand over in the general direction of the tomb.

“That is true, Friar.”

“Death is so often a cause for grief among the living. Yet the dead are that much nearer to communion with God. It is the dead who should grieve for the living.” He took two awkward steps down the altar to come closer to her. “I have been hearing something of the death of your mother and your own actions in response to her untimely demise.”

“May I ask what it is that you have heard, Friar?”

He looked at her with something akin to a fatherly smile, although his face could not quite seem to manage such a gentle expression. “The priests who officiate here at the Basilica complain that your mother’s ghost haunts this place. They claim they can hear her sorrowed cries at night, crying out for vengeance. It is rumored that your mother’s death was brought about by man rather than God and you intend to see your mother’s spirit put to rest.”

She paused, thinking over her words carefully. “I don’t much believe in ghosts. Do you think that God allows spirits to haunt this world, spared of their eternal judgment?”

One eye narrowed as he peered more closely at her. “Only Satan’s unholy angels haunt this world in violation of God’s law.” He seemed satisfied by her answer, though. “If you wish to ease your mother’s soul, that goal would be more easily met through prayer for intercession on her behalf, to speed her progress through Purgatory.”

At least Savonarola didn’t think her mother condemned to Hell. Such was a positive reflection on her own self, at least she so hoped. “I will remember to redouble my efforts in the spiritual realm. But I assume you wish to speak to me regarding my efforts to answer for her death in this mortal world.”

Savonarola nodded. “The actions of a young woman, unmarried beyond appropriate years, seen in public with only another young girl in attendance…brandishing a firearm with intent to do harm. To say that these actions are unbecoming a young woman of your stature would be a serious understatement. A woman of beauty such as yours would in the best of times arouse impure desires in men allowed to view her. At a time so troubled as this, you place yourself at greater risk for harm.” His eyes traveled over her body in a manner that seemed oddly indifferent as it appraised her form. “Even if you find the answers for which you seek, I doubt you will find satisfaction in them.”

Diana swallowed. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

The Friar’s eyelids closed for a moment. “Perhaps you should listen.”

“Forgive me, Friar, but I can’t,” she insisted, aware she was now going out clearly on a limb. “I find that the world I understood has been shattered by my mother’s death. I must understand why it happened. I must understand what happened.”