The Scarlet Contessa (39 page)

“The bastard!” she said softly. “How dare he hurt you so! He seemed such a kindly, sensible sort. I’m of a mind to hunt him down and—”

Wisely, she left the rest unsaid, and her tone became more practical. She pointed to a phrase in the letter. “ ‘Work I must accomplish, in a city I must not name’ . . . Dea, he is a spy!”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand it,” I said tremulously, but my lady was not fooled.

“You’ve never lied to me before,” Caterina stated flatly, “and I must say that you’re very bad at it.” She faced me with a sympathetic yet unyielding stare. “For whom does he spy? Where are his loyalties?”

“To the Riario, of course,” I said feebly, but was too exhausted, too angry, too heartbroken to prevail, and I knew it.

So did Caterina. “I have always put more trust in you than anyone else in this world. Do not betray me.”

I drew a breath and closed my eyes, so that everything I saw in the little room would not remind me of Luca; even blind, I could still smell iron-gall ink.

“He has always been loyal to the Riario, and to you, Madonna,” I said without opening my eyes, “but he was loyal first to his benefactor, Lorenzo de’ Medici, who rescued him from the orphanage and educated him.”

“Lorenzo,” Caterina breathed respectfully. Despite her husband’s vicious hatred of the Medici, the Lady of Forlì had always admired Lorenzo. But her tone hardened. “So he was a spy for the Medici,” she said.

I nodded. “He warned Lorenzo that Girolamo was plotting to kill him.”

She lifted the paper between her thumb and forefinger and held it up, a warning. “Had he not brought back such a great army from Milan, I would not trust him. I would send men after him, to hunt him down.”

I finally looked at her. “He is good-hearted, Madonna. He means well. Please don’t ever think—”

“I won’t,” she said, “if you will tell me for whom he works now. The hapless Piero de’ Medici, Lorenzo’s son? Or someone else? My uncle Ludovico?” A look of pure hatred flickered in her eyes. “God forbid, Borgia?”

“He would never work for the likes of Borgia!” I answered hotly. “Luca was as distraught as you when Borgia claimed the tiara. If anything, he has gone to work against him!”

“Wherever he has gone,” she said, “his work must be dangerous, or he would have taken you.”

Tears threatened again; I swallowed hard. “He told me he would leave, but he would not say when.”

Caterina stiffened. “You knew and you did not
tell
me?”

I shook my head guiltily. “I did not. Forgive me.”

At that, she scowled and rose indignantly beside me. “How long have you known that he was leaving?”

“Two months.” I peered cautiously up at her; her eyes were bright with anger. “I wanted to go with him, of course, but we both knew . . . I told him, so he knew . . .” I paused, overwhelmed by emotion.

“Say it!” she snapped.

“That I could never leave you. My place is here, with you, always.” I turned to face her directly. “I have read my own cards, Madonna. Like you, my future is the Tower. I will never desert you. I hope that you have always known that.”

The anger drained from her so swiftly that she sat down heavily beside me. “Oh, Dea!” she murmured, blinking rapidly, and put a hand to her throat. I expected her to embrace me again; instead, she spat upon Luca’s letter, then crumpled it into a ball and threw it across the room.

“Stinking weasel!” she shouted at it, as though it were Luca himself standing before us. “Miserable son of a whore! I will not forget your transgression against me, against your beautiful wife! When you return, I will throw you into the soldiers’ latrine! I will make Marta use your head to scrub the chamber pots! No one dares break the heart of the Lady of Forlì’s sister!”

Sister,
she called me.

With that, she threw her arms about me and kissed my cheek; uncomfortable with her own display of emotion, she lifted her skirts and hurried up the stairs.

When she had gone, I picked up Luca’s letter and carefully wiped the spittle away before smoothing it out and placing it beneath my pillow.

Chapter Thirty

Months passed, and Luca did not return, nor did I receive a letter from him, though twice a folded, sealed piece of paper was delivered to Ravaldino by a street urchin, who could not describe the mysterious courier who gave it him.

Twice, I broke the seal in an agony of expectation, and twice read the single line, written in Luca’s carefully even script:
Know that I love you and think of you always.

I was desperately glad to read such words, even though they reopened the wound his departure had inflicted on me. Caterina tolerated my mournful visage and sighs without a word.

The political turbulence in those days served as a distraction. The year 1494 began with the death of King Ferrante of Naples in January, which encouraged the French king, Charles, to gather a huge army and march south through northern and central Italy. This terrifying event led to instability in Florence, where Lorenzo’s feckless heir, Piero, was banished along with the rest of the Medici. Florence became a republic after the same fashion as Venice, and she sided with the French.

Caterina remained scrupulously neutral during the war, until the Neapolitan troops were upon Forlì, at which point she promptly announced her support for Naples. Fortunately, the French never visited our town, and the new king of Naples, Alfonso, had the good grace to rout them; King Charles also had the good grace to retreat after coming down with the pox.

The calm that followed was fleeting. Venice had her eye on the Romagna, specifically on the town of Faenza, which lay directly between Imola and Forlì. The Venetians saw Faenza as an excellent maneuvering ground from which they could launch an attack on Florence. Dismayed, Caterina sent several letters to her uncle, Duke Ludovico of Milan. Ludovico did what he could to influence the Serene Republic, but the matter was never fully resolved to Caterina’s satisfaction.

In the meantime, King Charles of France had died and was succeeded by Louis XII, who also felt entitled to the Italian peninsula. France was unusually powerful, with a vast military force, owing to the fact that she was united under one ruler; and Florence allied itself with her, believing that this time the superior might of France would prevail. Well before King Louis announced his intentions, the Borgia pope, Alexander, had created a Holy League: an alliance of Rome, Venice, and Milan as well as other smaller city-states. Caterina announced her intention to remain neutral, which at once caused both sides to try to persuade her to join their cause. Ludovico sent several letters to Caterina, begging her to join the league; her uncle Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, now Borgia’s right-hand man, informed her that Pope Alexander “recommended” that the Lady of Forlì join the league, as he was now her overlord.

And then, one fateful day in the first days of September 1496, there came the ambassador from Florence.

Giovanni di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici was a beautiful man; at the sight of him entering Caterina’s well-appointed sitting room in Paradise, flanked by ten attendants, I fought to contain a gasp of appreciation. I believe he was twenty-eight then, fully in his prime.

Save for his hair—full, dark ringlets that fell slightly past his shoulder and, where brushed out, dissolved into a soft, voluminous cloud—he had the even, classical features favored by ancient Romans: a thin, straight nose with flaring nostrils and a perfectly proportioned chin with a pronounced cleft in its center. He was clean-shaven, the better to show it off. His eyes were slightly rounded and brown-black, matching his hair, which was parted in the middle to show off a high, unlined forehead; his eyebrows were thin, lending a delicacy to his aspect. His neck was as long and white and graceful as Caterina’s, though the muscles and tendons were more prominent. His hands were long, uncalloused, and slender—a gentleman’s, not a soldier’s.

He was slightly taller than the Lady of Forlì, with a powerful chest and wide shoulders accentuated by a narrow waist and hips. He wore simple black leggings and a tunic of sedate dark brown silk.

His voice, though not deep, was well modulated and pleasant to the ear. I first heard it as he passed over the threshold, joking and laughing with his attendants as if they were his friends and equals. He had been smiling, and that smile widened at his first glimpse of Caterina and seemed to illuminate him from within.

I stood beside Caterina, who was seated in a high-backed chair, the closest thing that she had to a throne. As distracted as I was by Giovanni’s physical presence, I noticed that Caterina’s hands gripped the arms of her chair tightly.

The Lady of Forlì had become acquainted with Ser Giovanni through business correspondence with him and with his older brother, Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici. They were nephews of Lorenzo the Magnificent and had received an exquisite education from their uncle after their father died; however, they broke with il Magnifico after coming to suspect that he had spent most of their inheritance on himself and his more immediate family. Their disagreement with Lorenzo had saved them from exile, and to appease the new Republic of Florence, they eschewed the Medici name while in the city, instead using the surname “Popolano,” “of the people.”

The Romagna, with Forlì and Imola at its heart, was famed for its abundant wheat crop, which, in previous years, had led Giovanni il Popolano to Caterina in search of grain to buy. The business was conducted solely through correspondence; Caterina was so impressed by the brothers’ quick payment and honest accounting that she did not turn Ser Giovanni down when he asked for a small loan in order to make a large purchase of grain. That, too, was swiftly repaid.

When Giovanni asked for permission to visit Caterina in August of 1496, she readily agreed, even though she realized that their talks would surely stray from business to politics. She had made too much money from her grain sales to the Medici brothers to offend them, and they had shown such courtesy in their dealings with her that she trusted Ser Giovanni’s efforts to persuade her to side with Florence against the Holy League would be gentle and brief. She prepared a lavish suite in Ravaldino, bought a cellarful of the region’s finest wine, and had several new, more elaborate gowns made so that she might properly entertain a Medici from Florence.

Now Ser Giovanni walked through the doors of Paradise, and with a gesture, bade his entourage remain several steps behind him as he walked up to Caterina and bowed from the waist with a courtier’s practiced ease.

“Your Illustriousness!” he greeted her cheerfully. “How honored I am to set eyes on you at last!”

“Welcome to Forlì, and Ravaldino,” Caterina replied, and extended her hand. “My home and everything in it are yours.”

Ser Giovanni took the proffered hand and kissed it respectfully. Entranced, Caterina stared down into the soft dark nest of curls as he leaned over her, and scarcely breathed until Giovanni’s lips touched her skin—at which instant she squirmed ever so slightly in her chair, and her free hand went to rest just beneath the hollow of her throat.

Giovanni rose, his pale skin flushed; he did not release Caterina’s hand quickly, and when he did, she did not immediately withdraw it, but lingered a bit in his grasp.

“Your hospitality honors me,” he said, his eyes still on her face. He motioned to his attendants; three of them stepped forward, and I noticed for the first time the objects they bore. “I have brought a few paltry gifts in recognition of your kindness. First, a painting from the hands of Sandro Botticelli, my dear friend.” He waved a hand toward his gentlemen. “Enrico, please.”

One of his entourage stepped forward, bearing a large rectangular item draped in black velvet. At Giovanni’s nod, the man removed the velvet to reveal an astoundingly lovely portrait of a Madonna and Child in a large gold frame. To Caterina’s delight, the Madonna resembled her.

“Forgive me,” Giovanni said. “I did not have a likeness of you—only a coin, and the knowledge that you were beautiful and golden-haired. The rest came from Sandro’s imagination. I must say, Your Illustriousness, that you are quite famous in Florence for your bravery. Sandro is so impressed with your beauty and boldness that he has included your likeness in many of his paintings.”

“It’s beautiful,” Caterina breathed. “Simply beautiful. I shall have it hung in a place where I can see it often.”

The man with the Madonna and Child stepped back into the group, and a second man came forward with a stack of folded fabrics in his hand. Florence was, after all, famed for its fine silks and woolen cloth.

“These are only samples,” Giovanni said, “of a much greater quantity stashed in our wagons below. If there are any you do not like, we shall carry them back to Florence. If anything pleases you especially and you desire more than we have brought, let us know and we shall send it to you the minute we return home.”

The man proffered the fabrics to Caterina; she lifted and unwrapped the first of them—a sheer, iridescent silk that began as deep purple, then slowly faded to lilac, at which point the hue shifted to rose and eventually a dark crimson.

“This is our cangiante silk,” Giovanni said, “but there are many others.”

Caterina ran her fingers over the next piece of fabric on the stack, burned-out black velvet, the sheer pattern shot through with glistening thread of gold. “They are all lovely. . . . I shall go through them later, after you have had a chance to rest and refresh yourselves. Dea, would you go and tell the kitchen to fetch us some of the wine I put aside for Ser Giovanni?”

“Ah,” Giovanni interjected, “Madonna Dea, I have been so rude to ignore you! Forgive me, I was distracted by our lady’s beauty. I am Ser Giovanni, and pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He bowed from the shoulders, and I made a half-curtsy, then moved to obey Caterina’s instructions.

Before Caterina could interrupt us, Giovanni said, “But first, Your Illustriousness, let us bring out one more gift; I think you will find it useful almost immediately.”

With that, the fabric-bearer retreated, and a third gentleman stepped forward. In his hands rested an intricately carved wooden box, inlaid with gold and nacre in the shape of a fleur-de-lis, symbol of Florence and her ally, France. It was of sufficient size to hold a fortune’s worth of jewelry or silverware. Caterina opened her mouth to utter thanks, but before she could speak, Giovanni held a finger to his smiling lips.

His gentleman held the underside of the box and, tilting it forward so that the contessa could easily view its interior, lifted the lid. It was connected to the bottom by a hinge, and as it opened, neither Caterina nor I could hold back frank gasps of awe.

Nestled against a lining of scarlet velvet was a pair of pure gold goblets fit for an emperor. The shapes of the cups matched exactly, but their adornment differed: one was encrusted with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, the other with sapphires, diamonds, pearls, and malachite.

Two chalices.

Unnerved, I went to fetch wine and goblets for Ser Giovanni’s attendants. When I filled Giovanni’s gold chalice, then my mistress’s, Caterina linked her arm through Giovanni’s for a toast.

At long last, the King of Chalices had arrived, bearing with him the Two of Cups—love—and the smitten look in my lady’s eyes confirmed it.

Giovanni’s attendants departed to prepare his chambers while their master sat beside his hostess, enjoying wine from the glittering chalice. Caterina, who drank little and then only in the evening, took more than her usual share, perhaps because she was too distracted by her guest to notice that the cupbearer kept refilling her dazzling goblet. The grape allowed her to recover her confidence, and in the conversation that followed, she told Giovanni:

“I have no doubt that your Republic has sent you with orders to sway me to the side of the French alliance. But I
must
remain neutral; if I accept Florence’s protection, Pope Alexander would have every right to seize my properties. I tell this to you now to spare you the trouble of arguing on your government’s behalf later.”

Giovanni gave a half smile, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “Of course the Republic wants me to persuade you to join us. Why would they not? But I was born with the Medici brain for business, not diplomacy. I’m here to buy grain. No doubt you’ve heard of the poor harvest in Tuscany.”

“I have,” Caterina allowed.

“It’s worse than you imagine. It affects not just the poor, but the merchants and nobles, too. People are starving in the streets.” His gaze grew sorrowful at the thought. “I will sell the wheat to the city at a slight profit. The Republic did not send me; I saw a need, and made arrangements to come.” The half smile returned. “Although the government begged me, of course, to speak to you about the advantages of allying yourself with Florence.”

“So you are loyal to the Republic? You did not leave with the other Medici. And what shall I call you? Giovanni de’ Medici, or Giovanni il Popolano?”

His grin turned wry. “Outside of Florence, I find the family name to be very useful. In my mind, I am a Medici, but it was necessary to avoid offending the Republic, so I took the name Popolano. But frankly, Your Illustriousness—and I trust you completely with such damning information—I believe as you do, that power is best kept in the hands of noble families who are educated and trained from birth to rule. It is frightening to see the uneducated and superstitious sitting in the halls of government.”

Although Giovanni and his men were clearly tired and dusty from travel, Caterina would have continued speaking to him the entire day had he not graciously hinted that his men were in need of baths and beds. Instead, she let him be led to his recently refurbished apartment, where he rested until dinner.

He arrived in the dining chamber a few minutes before Caterina—as had I, with the precious goblets, to clean them and set them out for his and Caterina’s use that night. I forced myself not to gape at his beauty and murmured a greeting. He nodded to me politely, and with the same dimpled half smile, said, “Good evening, Madonna Dea. Forgive me for disturbing you, but I could not help noticing that you and our lady are very close. I was wondering whether you would be willing to tell me something in confidence.”