The Dead of Winter

by S. J. Parris

  ‘Come, Lucrezia,’ the cardinal said, with a teasing smile, ‘you are renowned for your devotion to studying the holy scriptures – you must have a favourite psalm?’

  The woman in red threw her head back and let out a pleasingly unrefined laugh. ‘I prefer the Song of Solomon, Brother,’ she said, giving me that same direct look; I felt the blood rush to my face. ‘You had better ask Leonora – she’s the one who should have been an abbess.’

  Her sister raised her eyes briefly, as if this were a joke grown old, and turned her thoughtful gaze to me.

  ‘Psalm 140,’ she said.

  ‘Which language, my lady? Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Italian?’

  Cardinal d’Este laughed. ‘We’d better have it in Italian, or my sister Lucrezia will lose interest.’

  Lucrezia leaned forward. ‘Oh, you’re wrong, Luigi – I feel sure I could listen to this pretty friar all evening, in any language.’

  I blushed deeper, but I did not miss the way the young man standing behind her tensed at her provocative tone, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the back of her chair. I glanced at him; a youth a few years older than me, with light brown hair and a smooth face, his mouth pressed tight, green eyes alight with anger. Porta had said the cardinal’s sisters were unmarried, but this young man’s possessive manner suggested he was a suitor, or believed he had some claim on her. I had no wish to make further enemies in Rome, so I directed my gaze politely to the other sister, Leonora, as I recited Psalm 140 from memory.

  When I finished, Porta clapped his hands in delight at the cardinal’s evident approval and cried, ‘Now backwards, Bruno!’ So I obliged by reciting the psalm backwards, which drew astonished exclamations from the onlookers. Hearing their gasps, more spectators gathered around to listen, until I was the centre of a considerable crowd.

  ‘Bravo!’ said the cardinal, regarding me with the open pleasure of a child watching a dancing puppet; I recalled Fra Agostino’s snide warning about his appetite for novelty. ‘What about Psalm 86? Give us that one in Latin, for my learned fellow clerics.’ A couple of older men in religious robes standing by laughed at this, and so I obliged; by now the audience had the hang of the game, and people started shouting out numbers of psalms to test me. I was glad I had barely had time to touch the wine; on my painfully empty stomach, even a glass would have blunted my ability to remember. I complied with each request, sometimes speeding up my delivery to impress them further, until eventually Lucrezia d’Este interrupted with a loud yawn.

  ‘Very clever of you,’ she said, toying with her necklace, ‘but can you parrot anything other than the holy scriptures? Which I must suppose you have been learning since your cradle.’

  ‘Come now, Sister – I will not have that!’ Cardinal d’Este rose gallantly to my defence. ‘I was raised for a life in the Church since the nursery too, as you know, and my memory is like a sieve – I count it an achievement when I can remember the whole Pater Noster. Fra Giordano is unquestionably a prodigy – he appears to carry the entire bible in his head. Even you, with your jaded taste for marvel, must acknowledge you are impressed.’

  Lucrezia did not appear willing to concede anything. Perhaps she had thought to make me look foolish, but I merely bowed and asked if she would care to hear some Petrarch. She sat up then, and favoured me with a cool smile.

  ‘Petrarch? You think, I suppose, that all women are set a-flutter by a sonnet of love?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, my lady. I have no experience of setting women a-flutter.’ I met her eye and saw the corner of her mouth twitch, amused. ‘I can give you some Cicero, if you prefer?’

  ‘God, no. It’s a party. Let’s have the Petrarch, then.’

  She gestured for me to begin, and I launched into some verses; she kept her gaze on me in a way that began to make me feel distinctly uncomfortable, until I faltered over the words. The room appeared to be growing hotter. She noticed my stumble, and I could see she was pleased by the effect; I was almost relieved when I was interrupted by the sudden crash of a tray of drinks smashing to the floor as the young man by Lucrezia stepped backwards into the attendant carrying it.

  ‘My apologies,’ he muttered, smirking at me, as the servant scrambled to pick up the fallen goblets, red-faced in front of his employer, while the women shrieked and lifted their feet lest their velvet slippers be splashed with wine. Cardinal d’Este took the opportunity to grasp me by the elbow.

  ‘Thank you for a most entertaining performance,’ he said. ‘Let us take some air together. Porta, join us.’

  He led me through to an adjoining room, equally breathtaking in its decoration; here the servant trotting before him opened a door and I followed Porta and the cardinal on to a wide loggia that ran the length of the building, above an inner courtyard. Away from the heat of the fire and the press of bodies, the sharp December air was as welcome as a draught of cold water and I felt my head begin to clear.

  ‘So, my friend,’ said the cardinal amiably, draping an arm around my shoulder. ‘What are you going to tell Cardinal Rebiba about me?’

  I stared at him. ‘Your Eminence, I—’

  ‘No need to be coy, Bruno – that snake Agostino da Montalcino will have asked you to spy on me tonight, I’m not a fool. Don’t worry, it doesn’t offend me. You’re not the first. I feel sure that between us we can concoct a few stories that will have the venerable Rebiba reaching for his sal ammoniac.’

  ‘You are not afraid of him?’ I realised as I spoke how naïve the question was. What must it be to come from a family so powerful that you never needed to fear what was said about you behind your back?

  The cardinal gave a mirthless laugh. ‘There’s not much he can do to me for now, I have enough allies in the Sacred College. But you should certainly be afraid of him.’

  ‘Your Eminence—’ There was a warning in Porta’s voice.

  ‘He needs to know, Porta. Listen.’ He leaned against a pillar and folded his arms, fixing me with a serious look. ‘Cardinal Rebiba is a dangerous enemy.’

  ‘But he’s not my enemy,’ I said, glancing at Porta in alarm. Cardinal d’Este laughed again.

  ‘He’s certainly not your friend, whatever Fra Agostino has told you. Scipione Rebiba is as obsessed with purging heresy as Pope Pius himself. It was Rebiba who introduced the Roman Inquisition to Naples, nearly twenty years ago. And your convent, San Domenico Maggiore, resisted.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ A chill began to seep inside my robes; I could not tell if it was the air or the story he was about to unfold.

  ‘San Domenico is a rich convent. It had a comfortable relationship with the city authorities and the barons, with plenty of money flowing in for indulgences – the prior who was in place at the time didn’t want to be the one responsible for interrogating people for heresy all of a sudden. He feared it would affect those lucrative connections. So Rebiba contrived to have him replaced with someone more malleable.’

  ‘How do you know all this? You must have been a child at the time.’

  ‘My uncle Ippolito is also a cardinal. He’s told me all about it.’

  ‘My father remembers it too,’ Porta cut in, his expression grim. ‘The fear that spread through Naples when the Inquisition arrived. Suddenly anyone with a vendetta could accuse his neighbour of heresy, and see him put on trial and possibly tortured. The Dominicans were hated for a long time because of it.’

  ‘The prior that Rebiba installed died a few years later, and your current prior is showing himself increasingly reluctant to persecute heresy with the fervour that the Pope and Rebiba would like,’ Cardinal d’Este said. ‘The word here is that heresy is allowed to flourish in Naples because your prior is too liberal – including with his own friars. And the Spanish want to use that as an excuse to introduce their version of the Inquisition to Naples, which is even harsher than ours, and would clearly undermine Rome’s authority in the kingdom. Naturally, Cardinal Rebiba takes all this very personally. And he is not to be underestimated, Bruno.’ H
e exchanged a glance with Porta.

  ‘Ten years ago, when the previous pope was elected, he ordered Rebiba and another cardinal arrested, because they had opposed his election,’ Porta said. ‘They were both imprisoned in the Castel Sant’Angelo. The other cardinal was strangled one night in his cell. No trial, no repercussions – but clearly on the then pope’s orders. Some weeks later, Rebiba was released without charge – but can you imagine what those weeks did to him? Lying awake night after night, waiting for the footstep in the dark? It has made him utterly without mercy.’

  ‘Not even cardinals are safe,’ Este said, touching a hand tenderly to his own throat.

  ‘Oh God.’ I leaned on the balustrade and looked down over the courtyard, feeling faint. I could not even enjoy the prospect of amusing my friends in Naples with the idea that anyone could consider our prior too liberal. ‘Then I am walking into a trap.’

  ‘Well.’ The cardinal rested his back against the stone pillar beside me. ‘It is certain that Fra Agostino was sent to San Domenico to report on anything that could be used against your prior. A young man of prodigious – one might almost say unnatural – gifts is going to be an object of interest. And I have not studied the art of memory the way either of you have, but I have read enough to know that it draws on occult philosophies and magic.’

  ‘Every book Bruno has used in developing his memory system came from my secret library,’ Porta said, lowering his voice. ‘And every one is on the Inquisition’s Index of Forbidden Books. If he should be tortured, that would give them enough to take me in as well, and cast suspicion on you, Your Eminence, as my patron.’ He nodded to the cardinal.

  ‘I wouldn’t mention either of you,’ I said fiercely, but my stomach had clenched tight at the prospect and I feared I might retch. In truth I had no idea what I might be capable of, faced with the prisons of the Inquisition, and whether any of my principles or loyalties would survive. Like most healthy young men, I tried not to think about death at all if possible, and only as something that happened to other people.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ Porta said smoothly, patting my arm. He seemed remarkably sanguine, though I knew he had been bred to hide his feelings under a mask of courtliness. ‘All the same, it would be well to make sure nothing you say to the Pope about your memory system gives even the slightest hint of unorthodox reading.’

  ‘Make sure you give all the credit to St Thomas Aquinas,’ Cardinal d’Este added. ‘He was a good Dominican, and a student of memory – they can’t find fault with him.’

  ‘But if I have been brought here so that they can use me to attack the Prior of San Domenico, they will find something else to fault.’ I turned to face him, and my legs buckled under me; whether it was fear or hunger, I couldn’t say. The cardinal reached out and caught me by the arm. He had heard the panic in my voice.

  ‘Let’s get this young man something to eat, and hear some Christmas music, and we’ll have no more talk of the Inquisition,’ he said, with deliberate good cheer. As we paused for the servant to open the door from the loggia, he laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Speaking of danger,’ he said in a low voice, and my heart froze, though he was half-smiling. ‘Watch out for my sister Lucrezia. She’s taken a liking to you, and she’s a young woman who is used to getting what she wants. Well – not so young any more,’ he added wryly. ‘She will be thirty-four soon. High time she was married off, and put an end to all the gossip.’

  ‘Was that her betrothed, the man who knocked over the drinks?’ I asked as we stepped back inside. ‘I don’t think he took a liking to me.’

  ‘Ha! No, he wouldn’t. That’s Renzo Arduino. Don’t worry about him. He’s nobody – just a bastard nephew of the Prince of Piombino that my sister keeps on a leash to amuse her, in lieu of a lapdog. He’ll yap at anyone who comes near, but he has no claim – the family would never let him marry her, though he can’t seem to get that through his head, and hangs around in the hope that one day she’ll take his suit seriously. If he gives you any trouble, just tell me and I’ll have his arse kicked out of Rome faster than he can scatter a tray of drinks. But I’m serious – mind Lucrezia. If you’ve been tasked with spying on me tonight, you can be certain that others here will have the same commission. And since you are to appear before the Holy Father tomorrow, it would be wise if you kept yourself free from any taint of gossip. Don’t give them any more ammunition to use against you.’ He slapped me on the back as we approached the press of guests. ‘Now – let us celebrate the Nativity of Our Lord with some decent food and a dance. I want you to hear my new singer from Brescia.’

  The cardinal’s Master of Ceremonies rang a bell and led the guests through to a high banqueting hall, its ceiling painted with scenes from the lives of the saints, the walls hung with rich tapestries. A long table had been set down the centre, with embroidered cloths, silver plates and goblets, gold candelabra and more Christmas garlands; the air was rich with the scent of pine and spices. All around me, people had grown animated and louder with the wine, jostling and pushing for seats closest to the cardinal and his entourage; in the press, I became separated from Porta and decided that, instead of running after him like a child who has lost his mother, I would do better to grab the nearest seat, in case I should find myself without one at all. I stood, looking around for an empty chair, shoved on all sides, when a hand closed over my sleeve. I turned to see Lucrezia d’Este smiling at me with a wolfish glint.

  ‘Sit by me,’ she said, pulling me after her. ‘My brother will have kept seats.’

  It was not a command I could refuse, as she well knew. The crowds parted respectfully before her and she gestured me to a chair at her side, across the table from the cardinal, who glanced from me to his sister and raised a wry eyebrow, as if to say I had been warned. Leonora sat opposite me, next to her brother; she also regarded me with a tight-lipped smile, as if she felt her thoughts were best kept to herself. Further down the table, a fight had broken out; Renzo Arduino, Lucrezia’s lapdog, who had missed out on a seat close to his lady, was trying to force his way in several places down, near enough that he could at least skewer me with a glare of such fury that I felt compelled to move a candelabra so that it obscured his face.

  The din of chatter died away as Cardinal d’Este stood to give thanks for the birth of Our Lord, the obedience of His Holy Mother, and the blessing of the Christmas season. A pious ‘Amen’ echoed the length of the hall, before the double doors at the end were flung open to admit a small army of servants bearing silver trays and platters with an array of delicacies beyond anything I had seen, even at the grandest feast days at San Domenico. There were stews of boar, beef and venison; plates of fish and shellfish; fresh pasta stuffed with cheeses and pine nuts; pies and pastries; roasted game birds and song birds in thick sauces of cream and herbs; seven different kinds of bread. I had only to set my glass down for a moment and a boy in Este livery would appear silently at my elbow and refill it. Musicians and singers accompanied the meal with motets composed for the season, though they could barely make themselves heard over the noise. I saw what Fra Agostino had meant about the luxury and indulgence of the cardinal’s table, and how it might scandalise anyone who believed the religious life should be one of abstinence and self-denial, in imitation of Christ. For myself, in a short while I was too drunk to give much thought to such theological questions. I ate, laughed and joined in the bawdy jokes, told stories of my own youthful adventures in Naples, and was persuaded by Lucrezia to teach her one of the filthiest army songs I had learned from my father; wine continued to flow and the laughter around us grew wilder and more raucous. Occasionally, I caught Porta’s eye across the table, though my head was too muddied to understand the import of his glance. When Lucrezia slid her hand up my thigh under the table I barely even noticed at first, though Renzo Arduino certainly did.

  After the meal, when the guests were sated and the singers brought in, I excused myself and stumbled out to the staircase, pausing to ask a servant wher
e I might go to piss. He pointed me down to a rear courtyard where animal troughs had been filled with sand for that purpose, and when I had relieved myself I adjusted my habit and leaned against a pillar for a while, hoping the night air would straighten my head. I still possessed enough clarity to realise that I was far too drunk to think of going back to Santa Maria yet; if Fra Agostino should accost me on my way through the door, I was in no state to offer him any useful account of the evening, and my obvious indulgence would only confirm his low opinion of me and the convent I represented. I tilted my head back to look at the upper balconies of the palazzo; the pillars around the loggia all appeared doubled. I pressed one hand over my left eye and squinted until they steadied. If I could find a place to rest for an hour or so, I reasoned, I might yet be able to creep back to Santa Maria after matins, and avoid Fra Agostino until breakfast, by which time I might be in better shape. To my drunk mind, this seemed in the moment a foolproof plan. I was looking for the entrance when a drawling voice spoke from the shadows behind me.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  I turned. Renzo Arduino stepped into the torchlight. His right hand rested lightly on the sword at his belt.

  ‘I’m having a piss. Did you want to watch?’

  ‘Do you think the lady Lucrezia is a common whore?’ He drew himself up, his chin tilted at me in challenge, but he was swaying on his feet, and there were wine stains down the front of his fine silk doublet. I realised he was as drunk as I was.

  ‘What?’ I had to narrow my eyes to focus. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘No? You’re acting as if you think she’s for sale. I saw you groping her under the table all through dinner.’

  I had enough of my wits about me to realise that it would be unchivalrous to protest that it had been the other way around.