The King's Agent (19 page)

“No, though I can think of some benefits to the position.”

“Well, prepare yourself,” she called. “Here comes your chance.”

She stepped out from the screen then, and his breath caught. He coughed away his reaction, not wanting her to hear of it, not wanting her to know how the vision she offered affected him.

Aurelia shrugged her now-silk-covered shoulders. “Would you tie my laces, Battista?”

She showed him her back, revealing the golden ties falling along her skirt, the empty eyelets she could not reach, and the gossamer linen below. The tight bodice of the jewel-encrusted emerald gown displayed the curves of her narrow waist and full hips. A thin line of jewels trimmed the high-necked, transparent chemise and the square neckline of the bodice sat low upon her full, rounded breasts.

He thought of all the traps he had escaped from, all the guards he had outrun; surely he could meet this challenge as well. As if he had done so for years, he laced her gown, pulling it to just the right fit.

“The poor are lucky, I think,” Aurelia remarked.

“Indeed?” He finished his work and stepped back, appraising the finished product, allowing a glimmer of his pleasure to show on his face. With almost every wisp of her hair hidden beneath the matching emerald snood with its heavy lace veil, her face was barely discernible, but he would know those green eyes no matter how camouflaged. He only hoped no one else would.

“They need no one to help them don their simple dress.” Battista nodded his agreement just as the knock and the call of “dinner” came from the other side of the door.

He held out his hand to her and she took it.

“Stay close to me,” he whispered as they stepped out into the hall behind the servant leading them to the dining room. “Looking that beautiful, here, you are in far more danger than you have ever been.”

Among the forty or so people sitting at the mammoth table, there were any number of dukes and knights, barons and counts. And amidst these nobles there sat even a so-called prince. There was no greater evidence of the changing face of Italian hierarchy than at this table; these egotistic Italians revered their labels, but in these bombastic days they most often denoted rank, not reputation. Aurelia cared not one whit what they called themselves, as long as they did not call her Aurelia.

More than a few of the faces looked familiar, and she did her best to avoid them without appearing rude. More than one man vied for her attention, and her every move asserted that she belonged to Battista, or “Gaetano” as it were, taking his arm whenever possible, allowing his hand to rest upon her in the most intimate of postures. She would prefer that she not like the feel of it as much.

Battista did his part admirably, chiming in to denounce the despots ruling their lands cruelly, belittling whatever religious leader’s name the others tossed up for ridicule.

Aurelia had never taken part in a tournament, not a joust nor a duel, though she imagined this was what it felt like, this sparring and jockeying. She ate little, laughed much, and lied a great deal. Through it all, not a single person she knew—and she did indeed know a few—recognized her for who she was. She had long acknowledged the truth: People saw only what they wanted, rarely seeing others for who they really were.

The long banquet table was awash with engraved pewter plates and sparkling Venetian crystal; the meal continued for hours and offered the land’s greatest delights ... salted trout from the coast, pheasant roasted to perfection, sweet rice simmered in almond milk.

Try though they might, Aurelia and Battista could not detach themselves from the ever more inebriated and ebullient party until the small orchestra performed a second round of musical entertainments and a few ponderous yet lascivious attendants offered readings of some vulgar poetry, intended, no doubt, to encourage sexual stimulation.

“I am ever so fatigued, my husband.” Aurelia leaned over the lap of a pudgy prince and complained loudly to Battista on the other side as the third such recital came to a close.

Jumping to his feet, Battista pried the snaking arms of the prince from around Aurelia’s shoulder.

“
Grazie mille!
” Battista fairly yelled at his host at the end of the table, and still his words were barely audible above the clangorous revelry in the dining room and spreading out into other parts of the palace.

The pointy-faced baron raised one long, thin hand, a barely bothered-with dismissal, far too preoccupied with the two women beside him to care who came and who went. Both leaned forward, their breasts revealed beyond the curved tips of their nipples; one woman stroked his almost-hairless pate as if he were an obedient dog.

Aurelia silently thanked the women for their perfect diversion and, latching onto Battista’s arm, set off for the door.

“You cannot leave now.” Ringarda pulled them back, throwing her arms around Battista’s waist as if she lassoed a pig. “The real festivities have yet to begin.”

With a forced laugh, he detached himself from the lewd groping, hands inching intrepidly down his hips. “The delights of your home are indeed tempting,
cara mia,
but we must away very early in the morning.”

Ringarda thrust herself between them, one arm circling each, stroking their backs with the same feathery, inviting touch. “Nonsense. What better way to spend the next few hours than in the company of admiring friends.”

Aurelia tried to step away, but the woman’s flabby arm was surprisingly strong. Instead, Aurelia stepped closer, thrusting her body against Battista’s, hands caressing his chest, running upward until they gathered about his neck.

“We have not been married long,” she explained with a low voice, licking her full lips, looking up at Battista as if he were the next course. “I’m sure you understand, signora.”

Battista’s surprised gaze clamped down upon the now-moist mouth so close to his, arms rising to encircle Aurelia’s waist with an instinctive response.

With a salacious though crestfallen grimace, Ringarda released the hold she had on them. “I can see he will have no one but you, my dear. I will delay you no longer then.” She stepped away only to spin back. “But call, should you desire more company ... either of you.”

“You shall be the first to hear of it,” Battista assured her with a crooked smile and a crack in his low voice.

Aurelia led him away, keeping one step in front of him, unable to look him in the eye after her lewd portrayal. She mimicked what she had seen so many other female courtiers do, and she must have done it well, if the astounded look on Battista’s face presented any evidence.

Stepping into their room, she heaved a sigh of relief at the sound of the metal rasping slide of the bolt as Battista threw it into place.

“I long to bathe,” she said without turning, pleased to hear Battista bark an uncomfortable laugh.

“I know exactly what you mean.”

Aurelia crossed to the window and threw open the sash, closing her eyes in gratitude as a crisp breeze washed over her, as if it cleansed her of a clinging filth. Battista grabbed the pile of his discarded clothing, his well-worn leather breeches and jerkin, and jumped behind the screen.

“You should change as well,” he called out.

“I will be most happy to,” Aurelia replied.

The notion stood between them then, unspoken but understood. . . neither knew for sure where next they would go, only that they would be better served to go in comfortable, sturdier clothing.

Their changing completed, an awkward silence came to sit with them, accented by the dissonance of the debauchery rising up from below; as the night progressed, the clatter changed without remittance. Unmistakable were the moans of passion; frightening were the groans of pain punctuated by cries of pleasure.

“I hope you know ... what I did ... how I acted ...” Aurelia stumbled on her embarrassment, unable to forget her actions as the haunted night stretched out. “I do not—”

“Your performance was masterful,” he told her quickly, “have no fear.”

Aurelia exhaled audibly, tossing aside her worry, turning to the only notion worthy of attention.

“How do we know where to go?” She reached into her satchel, scurried her hand beneath the folded and packed gown, and pulled out a well-worn copy of the
Commedia
.

“We don’t,” Battista answered. “We can only hope to find a clue.”

He pointed at the book in her hands, reached into the satchel now back in position where it belonged on his back, and retrieved his own copy of Dante’s epic poem.

“You have the way of it there. The answer lies in these words. I’m sure of it.”

Beside each other on the warm leather sofa, they reread the lyrical words of the
Commedia’s
first canticle. Aurelia kept her focus on the first passage, on Dante’s journey through Hell, as she had for many a day, ever since discerning the first clues, since knowing the location of their first destination. But it was much harder to concentrate on the poem thick and rich with allegory and symbolism in a palace filled with practicing hedonists, sitting beside a man who grew more familiar with each passing day.

For all her years, she had rarely been in the company of a man on such an intimate level. Her glance slipped sideways; Battista’s dark, thick lashes almost rested on the high bones of his cheeks, gaze riveted on the book in his hands. He pulled on the tuft of hair growing beneath his curved bottom lip as he so often did when deep in thought.

What a curious species men were, she mused, feeling both drawn to and repulsed by the man beside her. His allure drew her and yet frightened her; would it cause her to reveal too much of herself, would she make herself vulnerable where she had no business to be?

The feisty spirit within her longing for adventure argued back,
Are not men part of the human experience?
... And if what she overheard beyond their door offered any substantiation, did not men tender a great deal of life’s “amusements”?... Was not frivolity a master she hoped to serve herself? She had lived every day of her life as a devout woman, as faithful to her purpose as any who took a vow. But these moments existed to offer her more; she believed it.

With a sudden surge of audacity, Aurelia shimmied closer to Battista, offering him what she hoped was a flirtatious smile.

“Dante believed Hell was found below.” She could have bit her tongue. Having no clue how to start an intimate conversation—ignorant of what a vamp might choose to say—she had latched onto the only topic they had in common, but there was nothing beguiling about it.

Battista quirked his brows quizzically. “Hell
is
below,” he stated matter-of-factly, turning back to his book, jerking back up at her skeptical expression. “You don’t believe in Hell?”

“I don’t believe it is below.” She laughed lightly, though with stoic assurance. “But Dante did, and therefore, I suppose, below we should go.”

He looked relieved and there she found hope. Gathering herself, she put her hand on the small space between them, leaned ever so slightly, and—

Battista stood, crossed to the door, and put his ear to the crack. Aurelia sagged back in her seat; she was the most feeble seductress who ever lived.

He tossed her the most devilish smile over his shoulder. “It’s time.”

Fourteen

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

—Inferno

T
hey sidled down the empty corridor, mindful of every creaking board beneath their feet, chary to the stillness now enveloping the palazzo in its embrace. At any moment, Battista expected a door to fly open, then another, releasing the slumbering sybarites caged within. Or worse, to turn a corner and encounter an armed, questioning guard. Battista knew what he would do—what he must do—but he had no wish to abuse Aurelia to nurture their charade.

Once more on the ground floor, having safely descended the stairs without incident, they turned to each other with the same indecision.

“Did you notice any other stairs?” Battista asked with an urgent whisper.

Aurelia shrugged, tiptoeing toward the wide, resplendent hall leading to the dining chamber.

“The food came to the table from a back door. We can suppose it would lead to the kitchen on a lower level. It is the same in Mantua. It is a place to start,
sì?
”

Battista stepped to her with a nod, pleased by her analytical thinking.

The pendant lamps above their heads had gone dark and nothing more than nebulous, shifting light found its way into the corridor, slithering out of the rooms along its breadth. The moonlight cast a gray glow through the windows to their right, while the pale orange of fires dying in their marble hearths slipped out of the rooms on the left.

Battista shifted in front of Aurelia, taking the lead, stepping behind each bronze statue to hide beneath their legs, peering round their curvaceous bodies to see what awaited them in the next section of passageway. With each jerky progression, they made their way to the last chamber, and slipped in, closing the beveled and gilded double doors behind them.

“What in God’s name ... ,” Battista hissed, stricken by the sight before them.

The signs of carnage lay everywhere ... broken dishes still moist with uneaten food, overturned bottles, and broken crystal strewn across the floor. Upturned chairs dotted the landscape, scree at the base of a mountain. Shreds of clothing, ripped and tattered, draped the ruins—the top layer of riotous devastation. The revelers had taken their mania to the point of destruction, sparing nothing in their degenerate quest for satisfaction.

Aurelia shivered and he put an arm around her, pulling her close.

“I have never seen such a human wasteland.” Anger darkened her voice far more than fear, and he was pleased to hear it.

“This is the work of evil, nothing less.”

They shared a glance, one of sureness in the face of depravity.