The Scarlet Contessa (22 page)

“It’s from Gerard!” she hissed, and motioned for me to fetch my cipher key.

I did and returned to sit at my lady’s desk to write out the translation for her. When it was done, I handed it to her.

She snatched it, and read it aloud to herself in a barely audible voice. She was slow when it came to letters, and stumbled a few times, but the rising excitement in her tone indicated that she did not miss the gist.

My darling,

I, too, yearn to see you alone, in private, to speak of all that is in my heart. Like you, I have never been so stricken by love. So preoccupied am I by the memory of you—of your extravagant beauty, your sweet charms, your generous soul—that I cannot eat, sleep, or focus my mind on my duties. Your eyes are like sapphires, your skin as delicate and sweet as cream, your hair like spun gold. When may I see you? Give me a time, a place, and I shall come to you! No duty can keep me from your side.

Your adoring servant,

G.

Caterina laughed at some of the lines. “Eyes like sapphires!” she said scornfully. “Hair like spun gold! How trite! A good thing he has chosen politics and not poetry as his profession.”

Yet she giggled with excitement and instructed me to schedule a rendezvous between them that very evening, knowing that Count Girolamo had invited a number of men to his private quarters for political discussions that would likely last well into the night.

“You want him to come
here,
to the palazzo,” I breathed, “while your own husband is entertaining guests? I can think of nothing more foolish!”

She grinned, in far too expansive a mood to be irritated by my scolding. “It makes it all the more exciting, doesn’t it?”

“It does
not,
” I replied sourly. “Bona instructed me to look after you. You are not even fifteen years old, and your judgment concerning romantic entanglements is—”

“None of your concern,” Caterina finished icily.

“If your husband discovers you, Your Illustrious Highness,” I said, my tone formal, “he will at best beat you. He might well kill you, and no one in Rome would dare stop him, or avenge you.”

Her full lips twisted into a pout. In a cross, childish tone, she demanded, “The messenger is waiting. Do as I say!”

I sighed, and wrote a reply.

Beloved,

Come to my palazzo tonight, when the church bells proclaim the hour of Compline. Go to the servants’ entrance behind the east wing; I will arrange for the gate to be unlocked and unguarded. To your left, leading to the back of the estate, is a path lined by cobblestones. Follow where it leads, and when you find a fountain in the shape of a nymph beside a large olive tree, wait there, and I will find you.

You have my heart. I yearn to give you more.

C.

Before I sent the letter, I persuaded Caterina to consult her secretary about the count’s plans for the evening: Girolamo was meeting with “important personages who preferred to remain anonymous,” but the secretary confessed that one of them was the Archbishop of Pisa, Francesco Salviati. This troubled me, for I knew that the Medici had opposed Salviati’s appointment; Pisa was Florentine territory, and a Medici had always served as archbishop until Sixtus appointed Salviati, a distant relative, knowing it would infuriate Lorenzo.

But what troubled me most was the fact that Cardinals Borgia and della Rovere were coming later in the afternoon to the palazzo, and might well dine with Girolamo and his guests, after which all would meet with His Holiness at the Vatican.

Caterina, however, had made up her mind to find pleasure with Gerard, and could not be dissuaded. For the rest of the day, we were all preoccupied with embellishing my lady’s beauty: her body was bathed and plucked, her hair washed and rinsed with an expensive concoction of cinnabar, sulfur, and saffron, to coax out the gold; her teeth were polished with ground marble, and her blue eyes washed with rosewater.

Despite the chaos, I found the time to think about the scribe and all that he had said.

You saw the Hanged Man in the stars. Your brother was happy before his death.

Why do you not consult the one who would happily guide you?

He had been speaking of the angel, of that I had no doubt. And he had recognized Matteo as a fellow Magus. Luca, too, was a spy for the Medici, and the more I considered how much he had risked in order to protect me—and how much he still risked, by trusting me to remain silent—the guiltier I felt about suspecting him.

But the phrase “Romulus and the Wolf” still troubled me. Clearly it referred to Girolamo and Sixtus, and my Matteo had died trying to warn Lorenzo of their plan. Why would some other hand have taken his life?

During Caterina’s bath, the midmorning bells of Terce rang; as she sat out on her balcony, drying her combed-out hair in the midday sun and soaking her hands in milk, church bells throughout the city marked the hour of Sext. By the time they announced None in the midafternoon, her gleaming curls were dry, and by the time the sun had set at Vespers, her hair was done up in a fat braid wound just above the base of her skull; long golden ringlets had been artfully arranged to frame her face.

Caterina’s other attendants had retired by the time the bells marked Compline, and I had dressed her myself in silvery blue silk—at her request, a simple gown with no overdress or stomacher, and no sleeves save those of the white lawn chemise she wore underneath; the fewer impediments to passion, the better.

I felt a good deal of guilt as we hurried down the stairs, I holding an oil lamp, the wick adjusted so that the flame provided just enough illumination to guide us to our destination. I held the lamp low and close, so that it would be almost impossible to see from Count Girolamo’s balcony on the opposite end of the palazzo. The windows in the count’s wing still glowed yellow, and torches still lit the path back to the stables—he and his guests had not yet left for the Vatican.

With a silent apology to Bona, I led the way as Caterina and I hurried toward the back of the gardens. As we passed the servant’s side gate, Caterina began to whisper excitedly upon catching sight of the beautiful Arabian horse tethered nearby: clearly, her beloved had already arrived. We made our way over smooth flagstones, past long, waist-high hedges of boxwood, rosemary, lavender, and rose, the whole punctuated by marble Roman gods, stone benches, and citrus, fig, and olive trees.

At last we reached the clearing where an alabaster nymph knelt to empty her pitcher into a scallop-shaped fountain. Water rushed forth from the pitcher into the fountain with enough force to create a pleasantly cooling mist, one that glittered faintly in the muted glow cast by Gerard de Montagne’s lantern, covered by an oilcloth.

A few strides from the fountain stood a long stone bench in the shade of a large, gnarled olive tree, heavy with unripe fruit. The Frenchman stepped forward and went down on one knee, doffing his plumed cap with a flourish. He bowed his head, revealing tight, blond-white curls, and kept his face cast downward as he spoke.

“Madonna Caterina,” he said softly, with only a trace of a Gallic accent, “I am unworthy even to look upon you; I cannot believe that I have won the affection of one so charming, so young and so beautiful, and so far above my lowly station. Say the word, and I shall be your servant, to do as only you command.”

Delighted by the display of humility, Caterina grinned as she stepped up to the kneeling man, took his hat, and tossed it aside carelessly. Then she bent down and took his hands, and made him rise to his feet. Although Gerard’s shoulders and chest were rather narrow, his dark leggings revealed shapely, muscular legs.

“Is that so?” Caterina responded coyly. “Then take off your tunic, Gerard, so that I can see what a real man looks like, and take me in your arms.”

At that point, I turned away, blushing. Lamp in hand, I moved half a dozen steps away, to give them the stone bench and some privacy. I would have moved farther away—despite the gurgling fountain, I could still hear more than I wished to—but that would have made me more easily visible from the contessa’s wing of the palazzo. For a few minutes, I paced uneasily and stared at the flagstone beneath my slippers, trying to ignore the sounds of limbs intertwining and lips and tongues kissing.

“So perfect,” Gerard murmured behind me. “Like pearls! Let me kiss them. . . .”

Silk rustled; there came the sound of suckling. I closed my eyes and forced myself to think about the scribe, Luca, and how I could apologize to him without further endangering him. When I had exhausted that train of thought, I tried to ignore the sighs floating on the humid Roman air.

How strong you are, Gerard. . . .

I have waited so long for this, sweet Caterina. . . .

Pull it down. Let me see you.

The lovers fell ominously silent. Long moments passed; I set the lamp down and shifted my weight from one hip to the other.

Abruptly, the silence was broken by Caterina’s sharp gasp, followed by a long, low moan of delight. I wanted nothing more than to cover my ears with my hands.

And I might well have, had I not also heard rustling, not of silk or flesh against flesh, but of a body brushing gently against leaves. This was accompanied by carefully muted footfall, coming not from the direction of the lovers but the palazzo.

I turned toward the fountain. “Madonna!” I hissed. “Cover yourself, someone is coming!”

My gaze was averted, but not enough to spare me the sight of Caterina lying faceup, her breasts lifted out of her bodice, her pale hips exposed, her white legs and fine silk skirts draped over the side of the stone bench. Her jaw was slack, her lips parted, and her chin lifted heavenward in ecstatic abandon; her arms were tightly wound around her partner’s bare shoulders. Atop her lay the shirtless Frenchman, his dark leggings pulled down low enough to reveal the slope of his buttocks.

I cannot say whether Caterina heard me, but de Montagne did, and immediately uncoupled and pulled up his leggings. I turned back in the direction the sounds had come from, and when I lifted my lamp again, I glimpsed the dark form of a man running away through the garden, toward the west. Just as swiftly, he passed out of view, hidden by foliage.

I told Caterina that we had been discovered, that someone was running directly back to report to Count Girolamo what he had seen.

“Did you see who it was?” She did not rise or cover herself. Her tone was languid, and her pitch a full octave lower than normal.

“No, but it was a man.”

“Perhaps it was just a servant, trying to slip into the city unseen,” Gerard proffered. He and Caterina shared a look; it was clear that neither of them intended to be interrupted, regardless of the consequences.

In the end my objections were steadfastly ignored; both Caterina and her lover insisted that if I had not been able to see the man clearly, then he surely had not been able to see me, and certainly not the two of them behind me.

Once again, I set my lamp down on the ground, and some minutes later, when Caterina could not completely stifle her first howl of pleasure, I pressed my hands hard against my ears.

Much later that night, when Gerard had gone and I lay beside my sated mistress in her bed, I thought again of the dark figure fleeing through the garden, and wondered how long Caterina and I had before retribution came.

It was indeed forthcoming, though not in the manner I expected.

Chapter Sixteen

Caterina slept quite late, and woke in a languid but decidedly jovial mood. While the laundress gathered up the contessa’s linens to be aired and a chambermaid polished the marble floor in her bedchamber, Caterina took a late breakfast out on her balcony beneath awnings that shielded her from the already withering rays of the summer Roman sun. In a few hours, the heat on the balcony would be intolerable, but for the moment, Caterina desired privacy—and my company.

I took my place beside her at the table, facing west to look past the count’s wing, gardens, and stables toward the Tiber and the round fortress of the Castel Sant’Angelo. My lady faced her gardens, casting dreamy glances in the direction of the spot where she and Gerard de Montagne had consummated their tryst. She was still incandescent from the night before. She wore a small conspiratorial smile as her cupbearer filled her glass and a second chambermaid set plates before us holding blue-veined cheese, bread, and figs. When we were alone, she said in a soft voice, so those still inside her chamber could not hear:

“I cannot thank you enough. I was beginning to think that only men experienced sexual gratification, and I was growing quite frustrated and desperate. I am, after all, my father’s daughter.” She leaned toward me and, to my surprise, caught my hand; her tone grew uncommonly earnest. “Dea, why have you never spoken to me of this? Of this incredible capacity for pleasure that we women are born with?”

Tongue-tied, I dropped my gaze to the plate in front of me. I must have blushed scarlet, for when I dared glance up, Caterina was grinning wryly.

“Don’t tell me that Bona managed to turn you into such a prude,” she said. And when I still could not bring myself to respond, she added, “Did no one instruct you about the marriage bed?” Her eyes widened with mild horror. “Dea, don’t tell me that Matteo didn’t know how to satisfy a woman!”

I lifted my face and looked steadily at the horizon, unable to meet Caterina’s curious gaze. “We were both virgins,” I responded truthfully. “Please, Madonna, I am not comfortable discussing such things.”

“Well, everyone should be,” she countered. “Physical love is only the most important thing in life! If it isn’t, then why did God create Eve?”

“Because Adam was lonely,” I ventured shyly.

Caterina dropped my hand. “Bah! Then why not create a second man, if all Adam needed was a companion?”

I had no answer for that, and so I stared disconsolately down at the blue-veined slab of cheese in front of me, and lifted my knife to cut off a chunk.

“Poor Dea,” Caterina murmured. “You really don’t know what I’m speaking about, do you?” As she spoke, she shifted in her chair toward me; we sat so close together that our knees were touching.

She caught hold of my new amethyst gown beneath the table, and slowly pushed back the silk and petticoat beneath, until her warm palm rested against the outside of my thigh, just above the knee.

“The secret,” Caterina breathed, her eyes wide and bright, her gaze focused intently on mine as she half rose from her chair to slide her hand up my thigh, “lies
here
. . . .”

Her hand found its way to the top of my upper leg, and rounded the soft, inner curve of my thigh; in an instant, her fingers found the delta of hair between my legs, and began to probe there.

“Madonna,” I gasped, mortified, and got to my feet.

Caterina laughed at me. “You are a beautiful woman, Dea—too beautiful to fear the best things in life. Why do you not take a lover?”

Before I could answer, a door banged open inside the countess’s bedchamber. The laundress and chambermaids emitted soft bleats of fear as a man’s voice demanded: “Where is she? Where is the conniving little bitch?”

Caterina and I shared a fleeting look of terror. My lady smoothed her skirts, composed herself, and with an air of consummate dignity, rose and moved toward the open French doors leading to her chamber.

She never passed through them. Count Girolamo stood in the doorway, stooping so that his enormous head did not graze the lintel. His huge hands were clenched into fists, his teeth bared.

“Whore!” he snarled.

Caterina acknowledged his entrance with a curtsy and approached him fearlessly—an impressive act, given that Girolamo was fully twice her size. Her posture was straight, her chin lifted in regal defiance.

“My lord,” she countered, her lips pursed to show the perfectly appropriate degree of righteous indignance. “Why do you address me so discourteously? What possible cause have I given, for you to—”

Girolamo took a step forward and struck her full force with the back of his hand. Caterina stumbled backward two paces and fell, tangled in her skirts. I rushed to her side.

“Harlot!” he screamed, spraying spittle upon his fallen wife. “I marry a virgin of respectable lineage to bear my children, but it turns out that she is an irresponsible wanton!”

Caterina struggled to her feet with my help; Girolamo moved closer, forcing her to step backward until she stood pressed against the balcony’s waist-high stone railing. Her lower lip was bleeding freely, and the crest of one cheekbone was red and swelling.

Girolamo neared, half crouching to bring his face level with hers. For an instant, I thought he would strike again, but Caterina’s reaction gave him pause. She calmly wiped her bleeding mouth upon her sleeve.

“Of what crime am I accused, husband?” Her voice was strong, unyielding.

“Do you deny it?” Girolamo thundered.

With equal fervor, Caterina responded, “Deny
what
?”

Girolamo seized her shoulders and, pressing her back against the balcony ledge, shook her; she was obliged to cling to him, lest she fall into the garden three floors below.

“You were flirting!” he shouted. “At Borgia’s party, with one of the Frenchmen. I have the word of an eyewitness! You
kissed
him!”

In the midst of terror, I felt the urge to laugh. Girolamo had no idea of the extent of his wife’s infidelity. Whoever had seen us in the garden the previous night had kept our secret.

The instant Girolamo ceased shaking her, Caterina replied triumphantly, “
Who
accuses me? Let me question him, and I will expose this vile, disgusting lie!”

Her confidence was so genuine that Girolamo let go his grip.

“It was a reputable man,” he said, still smoldering. “One that I trust.”

Caterina glared at him. “One that you trust more than your wife? And might this ‘reputable man’ have any hidden motive for stirring up discord in your household? Are you so sure that this person has no cause to act maliciously toward you?”

At this, a glimmer of doubt crossed Girolamo’s features; he stepped back. Unafraid, Caterina moved forward to close the gap between them.

“This is a dangerous city,” Caterina said firmly, “and you have more than enough reason to distrust all those who set foot in your home. But I swear, my lord, that my one aim in life is to help you and the House of Riario ascend to the greatest possible heights of power and glory. My fate is tied to yours.”

Her expression transformed into one of reluctance and modesty; she suddenly blushed, as if she were the demurest of maids. “It is true, a Frenchman took unpardonable liberties with me and tried to kiss me. I was too ashamed to mention it to you and wanted no trouble, so I dealt with him myself. I see now that my behavior was wrong, and I therefore accept your husbandly correction.

“I do not know what your eyewitness saw, but I can tell you that once the Frenchman’s intentions became clear, I slapped him and commanded him never to take such liberties again. I promise you, he will never make the same mistake. Nor will I ever put myself into a situation where a man can take similar advantage of me.”

The count’s fury had eased, but his expression remained sullen and mistrustful. He turned to me, studying my expression carefully. “Does she speak the truth?”

I thanked Heaven that my inferior status allowed me to avoid meeting his gaze. “She does, Your Illustriousness.”

Girolamo narrowed his eyes at me. “See that she does not stray again from your sight.”

With that, he pivoted on his heel and departed.

I turned at once to my wayward mistress. Caterina’s expression was one of triumph soured by fury; her lip was still bleeding and she held the lower edge of her sleeve to it to staunch the flow. I reached out gently to lower her arm, so that I could examine the wound, but she waved me away and said, her voice muffled by the swelling and the fabric, “Get them out.”

I obeyed and shooed the still-gaping laundress and chambermaids out the chamber door while Caterina came inside. She sat in front of the hearth while I brought the basin and dabbed at her purpling upper lip with a cloth. I was weak with relief; clearly, had Girolamo known that his wife was an adulteress, he would have thrown her over the balcony and dashed her brains out on the flagstones below.

“Thank God,” I murmured, as I dabbed at Caterina’s wound with a none-too-steady hand. “Thank God . . .”

Caterina let go a vehement sigh. “Fetch my mirror.”

I hurried over to the dressing table where the hand mirror rested. When I brought it to her, she scowled at the polished steel surface.

“Fucking bastard! Look at my lip! And my cheek is swelling, too.” She lowered the mirror and looked grimly at me. “How long before the bruises are gone?”

“A week, at the earliest.”

“I cannot wait a week! I must see
him
again—if not today, then certainly tomorrow!”

I gasped in disbelief at the realization that she was speaking of Gerard de Montagne. “Madonna, you are mad!”

She grinned. “Perhaps I am, but if you had ever experienced what I did last night, you would understand my desire to see Gerard again. From now on, however, I will exercise more caution.” She lifted the mirror and frowned again at her reflection. “Now, bring me some salve and cold water. We must get this swelling down!”

At Caterina’s insistence, I penned another letter to Monsieur Gerard.

My darling,

My husband is suspicious; we were spied upon at the Palazzo Borgia, and news of our embrace traveled back to him. I am still concerned that whoever spied upon us in my garden may still tell what he knows. My husband is not a tolerant man, and has already indulged his temper upon me; I fear what retribution he might take should he know the full truth.

Even so, I cannot bear to wait until I see you again; you transported me to heights of ecstasy I have never before known. Tell me when and where I can meet you next, safely and discreetly—and quickly, my love, for each moment apart from you is pure torment.

Your secret beloved

This time, I bribed one of the French artists working on a mural in the chapel. He had no loyalty to Girolamo, and no one would find it odd for him to visit the French embassy. Monsieur Gerard was so eager to receive the message that he made the artist wait while he encrypted a reply on the spot.

Bellisima,
Gerard wrote,
O most beautiful one, my heart breaks to tell you that I cannot see you today or tomorrow. But early this Friday morning, your husband is leaving on political business for Faenza and Forlì—did he not tell you? The trip itself will find him on the road twenty days.

He then gave directions to a palazzo owned by someone who would gladly permit its use and was “a champion of love, utterly discreet about such matters.”

Meet me there at midday on Friday, after you are certain the count has departed,
he wrote.
Let us waste no time!

For the next three weeks, every weekday at noon, Caterina and I rode into the city in a carriage driven by her favorite groom—a shy, taciturn young lad who blushed wildly every time his mistress appeared. So smitten was he that he would accept no bribe for keeping his lady’s secret, “for it is,” he said, “my honor to serve her.”

I wanted desperately to remain behind. I thoroughly disapproved of my mistress’s scandalous behavior, but it would set household tongues wagging if I did not accompany her as a chaperone.

“Besides,” Caterina told me, “I would not feel safe without you.”

We traversed the city in an unmarked carriage, ostensibly to indulge Caterina’s desire to adorn herself and her surroundings. We visited goldsmiths, jewelers, silk merchants, artists’ workshops, each time making some purchase to prove that the contessa had, in fact, gone where she claimed to be going.

But always, before the church bells rang at midday, Caterina and I climbed back into the carriage and lowered the black gauze curtains as our driver urged the horses to the northeastern edge of the city proper. We made our way to the neighborhood surrounding the Piazza di Spagna, the Spanish Plaza, to a narrow road that terminated in a cul-de-sac, where a few small palaces stood, each walled and gated for protection’s sake.

The property was obviously owned by someone very wealthy, for a gatekeeper was always on duty and the driveway was covered with new flagstone. The original structure had been razed and replaced by the ubiquitous three-story rectangular palace of classical Roman design in polished stone. The interior, although sparsely furnished, featured the finest marble floors and walls covered by breathtaking tapestries.

We were welcomed inside by a jaded-looking, middle-aged noblewoman whose palpable boredom did not waver when she first looked on the dazzling Caterina, dressed in gleaming white and gold.

“Good day, Your Illustrious Highness,” she said, with a faint foreign accent as she curtsied to Caterina. She led us upstairs to a bedchamber that was far more sumptuously appointed than the rest of the house.

Standing beside the bed awaiting his beloved was Gerard de Montagne, dressed in only his short white chemise and blue leggings.

“My God,” he said, as Caterina entered, “I had forgotten how lovely you are! But what is this?” He rushed to take Caterina’s hands in his and stared at her bruised lip and cheek. “My darling! Oh, my sweet, what sort of ogre could dare despoil such a beautiful face? I should kill him!” This last phrase was said with altogether unconvincing bravado.