The Rossetti Letter (v5)

by Phillips, Christi

  “You should be in bed.” Alessandra stopped by to check on her patient and found him attired in his shirt and slops, the loose breeches worn by Spanish soldiers. He was peering through the glass of her curio cabinet. The tray that Bianca had brought up earlier had only crumbs left on it, and Alessandra surmised that he had discovered his appetite after all. The bath and clean linens had no doubt helped; the room smelled fresh again.

  “I was admiring your collection.” His white shirt glowed in the firelight, and orange points of light gleamed in his dark eyes. “Is that truly a human hand?”

  “It’s the hand of an Egyptian mummy. My father was a merchant who used to visit many exotic ports.”

  “He no longer travels?”

  “He and my brother were lost in a storm. But while he was alive, he never failed to bring back interesting presents.”

  “A mummy’s hand seems a strange gift for a girl.”

  “Perhaps I am a strange girl.” She laughed at his surprised expression. “Originally it was an entire mummy. But then the crew was apprised of its worth, and their avarice reduced it to this.”

  “What would you have done with an entire mummy?”

  “I don’t know. Propped it up in a corner to scare away thieves, I suppose. It would have made a wonderful study,” she said wistfully.

  “Those are your drawings, I take it?”

  “Yes, but they’re not meant for others to see.” Alessandra hoped he did not see the flush in her cheeks. This was her private sanctuary, a place where guests were not invited, which was why she had hidden him here. It hadn’t occurred to her that he was a guest, too; but then, he hadn’t been conscious at the time.

  “I think they’re quite good.” Antonio swayed a little as he spoke, and Alessandra realized that he had remained standing out of politeness.

  “I insist that you rest,” she said, and this time he didn’t hesitate to return to the bed. She took the tray away as he climbed under the coverlet.

  “Where are the things I carried with me?” he asked.

  “You mean the letter? It is in the bed-table drawer.”

  “Thank you for keeping it safe. And for keeping me safe. I’m sure your generosity will be rewarded.”

  “I require no reward, but an explanation would be welcome. Why were you instructed to come here instead of going to Bedmar directly?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “I have a right to know.”

  “I cannot tell you because I do not know. I’m not privy to the contents of the letter or to the duke’s reasons for such secrecy.”

  “You’re just the messenger, then?”

  “In this instance, yes.” He searched her expression for a sign of trust and found none. “You don’t believe me.”

  “I don’t know what to believe, except that I am being used for some end in which I have no part.”

  “Perhaps your lover, the marquis, can explain.”

  In the viscount’s comment she discerned a snide insinuation and a coldness in his voice that she didn’t in the least like. She moved toward the door, taking the tray with her.

  “You’re leaving?” he called.

  She turned to face him. “I’m called out for the evening.”

  “Is that why you’re dressed so handsomely?”

  “It is a courtesan’s duty to beautify and entertain.” She curtsied with an irony she suspected was lost upon him.

  “What mask will you wear?”

  “None at all. Masks are worn only during Carnival and other festival days.”

  “So your beauty will be on display for everyone to enjoy.”

  “Is that a compliment, or a slight? Your words, like your sword, can cut both ways. In your blundering attempt to win a woman’s heart, you may harm yourself.”

  “I thought a courtesan’s heart could not be won, only bought. And as you no doubt have seen from my purse, I have not the means. I am but a poor viscount, reduced to soldiering.”

  “That is a shame, indeed. Perhaps the next time you come to Venice, you shall be better equipped.”

  Alessandra was determined to ignore Utrillo-Navarre entirely, but by the next evening her resolution had wavered and she sent Bianca with a message asking him to join her downstairs for supper, if he were well enough.

  Still pale but steady of step, Antonio appeared in the parlor at the appointed hour, and escorted Alessandra into the dining room. Nico had lowered and lit the chandelier that illuminated the gold cloth-covered table, on which Venetian glass goblets and an array of exquisite Florentine china sparkled and shone.

  “I thought that this evening you would once again be summoned to a party of pleasure,” Antonio said as he pulled out Alessandra’s chair, then took a seat across from her.

  “It’s true, I am unexpectedly free. It seems that one of my patrons has found other company he desires more.”

  “I hardly know how to respond to such a new and unique challenge to my gallantry. Should I congratulate you for relinquishing one of your weekly sins or condole with you for losing a portion of your keep? I confess I am confused. Although I must say you don’t seem unhappy.”

  Alessandra laughed. “No, I’m not unhappy, strangely enough. As for your predicament, I require neither your congratulations nor your condolences.”

  “And how was your evening? Was it magical? Was your gown a success?”

  “So many questions! You must have been terribly bored.”

  “On the contrary. While you were out making conquests, I was praying for your soul’s salvation.”

  He spoke so solemnly that at first Alessandra believed he was sincere, then she saw the mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re jesting.”

  “But you believed me for a moment.”

  “Only a moment. You don’t have the look of the saint about you. I’m certain that if you were feeling better, you would join in the revels.”

  “Perhaps. But if I did, I would claim to be unduly influenced by a certain Venetian courtesan.”

  Bianca carried in a tray with dishes of olives and bowls of soup.

  “I believe you find delight in thinking me wicked,” Alessandra said after Bianca had gone.

  “You mistake me. I simply want to understand your character.”

  “‘Venetians first, Christians second,’ is what we say here, and I suppose that applies to me as well as anyone.”

  “So you do not consider your way of life sinful?”

  Alessandra’s hesitation was barely noticeable. “No, I do not.” She had never felt the need to share her private misgivings; why did she have to suppress an impulse to do so now?

  “Tell me, how is it you are without children? Is it not a mortal sin to prevent their conception?”

  “What the church may call a sin I call a kindness. I have no desire to produce more fatherless babes for the orphanage. But lest you think that all Venetian women are as sinful as I, please let me assure you otherwise—there are many bastards in Venice.” Alessandra smiled. “Some of whom were not even born here.”

  Antonio laughed heartily. “I deserved that. I must confess, I have never been devout. I did not like church at all when I was a boy. My family belonged to the grandest church in Pamplona, and I thought it was fearsome. Often enough they had to drag me there, kicking and screaming.”

  “You were afraid of church?”

  “When I was a boy, yes. When I got older, I simply slipped out the door as soon as it was convenient.”

  “You’re not afraid any longer?”

  “No.” He smiled. “But I always carry my sword, just in case.”

  “It does not seem as if fighting and praying are all that compatible, anyway.”

  “You’d be surprised. There is a great deal of praying on a battlefield.”

  “Do you like being a soldier?”

  “I suppose. I don’t think about it much. It was the path that was chosen for me, and yet I think I am well suited to it. Although there was no indication I would be.
My father, may he rest in peace, always said I was undisciplined, but that changed when I went into the duke’s service.”

  “The duke of Ossuna?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you pleased to be under his command?”

  “In what way do you mean?”

  “It’s a simple question. Your refusal to answer tells more than you would wish known, I suspect.”

  “On the contrary, I do not refuse. The duke is a man of vision who reigns supreme in Naples.”

  “We Venetians have a different view. He is a rogue who challenges our fleet without provocation, and it is rumored that he is living too well off the riches of his fiefdom.”

  “He assumes the privileges of power as does any lord.”

  “You defend him.”

  “Of course.”

  “You believe in unquestioning obedience, then?”

  Antonio’s jaw tensed. “That is a soldier’s duty. And, I might add, a courtesan’s duty if she cares to keep the patronage upon which her subsistence depends.”

  “My mind is no one’s possession but my own.” She rang for Bianca. “I find I am no longer hungry. Please continue, if you like.” Alessandra hurried from the room.

  Antonio hesitated a moment, then stood and brushed by Bianca as she entered the dining room. He caught up with Alessandra on the stairs leading to her bedchamber on the top floor.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”

  “You could begin by answering my questions.”

  “To reveal my thoughts could imperil both of us.”

  “Your presence here already does.”

  Against his better judgment, Antonio decided to take her into his confidence. “The duke of Ossuna is not a completely rational man,” he confessed reluctantly. “I cannot respect him, yet I must serve him or my life is forfeit. He rules with an iron fist and, in doing so, foments rebellion. He concocts grandiose schemes by which I fear he will bring himself and others to ruin.”

  “And the marquis? Do you serve him, too?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I suppose I do.”

  “And what is your opinion of him?”

  “Ambitious, ruthless, even cruel at times. But he’s also a masterful politician, a brave soldier, and a strong leader.”

  “But is he a good man?”

  “You perhaps know better than I.” He smiled ruefully. “Now that I have shared such private beliefs, I am completely in your power.”

  “You have no reason to distrust me.”

  “I have no reason to trust you, either.”

  “Need I remind you that you arrived in the middle of the night with a letter for the Spanish ambassador, a letter you could not freely take to his door. By this I can surmise that either you or this letter is unwelcome in Venice, and yet I have not given you up. Do not mistake my tolerance for naiveté. Just tell me—what secret business does Ossuna have with the marquis? Is he a spy?”

  “You go too far.” Antonio angrily turned away and stamped down the stairs.

  “Is he a spy?” Alessandra called after his retreating figure, but she got no answer.

  Alessandra was seated at her writing desk when Antonio entered the parlor the next morning. He stopped in the center of the room. “I have no wish to disturb you if you are busy.”

  “On the contrary, I’m just finishing a letter to my cousin in Padua.” They had not spoken since their argument of the night before and the air between them was strained. “Please, sit down.”

  Antonio perched on the chair near the fire. He still looked pale, and as if he’d had little sleep. “You will be happy to know that soon I will be on my way back to Naples.”

  “I agree it is best.” Alessandra paused and looked away before meeting his eyes again. “You said you wanted to understand my character. I do not wish you to leave thinking I am without morality, or without any religious feeling. But even when I was young, I knew that I had not those raptures that others professed to feel during Mass. It’s not that I had a competing philosophy; I was simply unmoved. The singing, the incense, the chanting meant little to me. I have always preferred the natural treasures of this world to the presumed rewards of the next. When I look at a seashell, or a rosebud, or the intricate veins of a leaf and see the order and the patterns of nature, I have a sense of my soul being taken and lifted by God, the same feeling that my friends claimed was inspired by the holy mysteries. Does that seem strange to you?”

  Antonio shook his head. “I have often felt such things myself, yet I have never been able to put it into words.”

  “My father used to say that contact with many creeds must dilute belief in just one. Perhaps it is that which contributes to my lack of Christian fervor, but I cannot regret it. If I were a man, I would be a sailing man, and travel to distant ports, and learn many strange customs.”

  “A sailor? You?”

  She smiled. “Not just a sailor—a pirate.”

  “A pirate!”

  “Yes.” She flourished her quill like a sword and pointed it at his throat, grinning mischievously. “I’d take my treasure off men like you—dainty, lily-livered dogs who faint from a little fever…”

  Antonio sprang toward her, tore the feather from her hands, and threatened her in turn. Laughing, Alessandra led him on a merry chase through the parlor, until Antonio caught her and lightly imprisoned her between his two outstretched arms, his palms firmly planted against the wall. Panting and smiling, she looked up into his face. All at once she did not feel like laughing anymore. For a moment, as their lips slowly moved closer together, neither seemed to be breathing at all.

  Bianca rushed in and curtsied nervously. “The marquis of Bedmar is arrived, my lady,” she said, her eyes darting between Alessandra and Antonio as they quickly stepped away from each other and prepared themselves to receive him.

  The Fool

  14 November 1617

  BEDMAR TIPPED OSSUNA’S missive toward the hazy light from Alessandra’s parlor windows and read it again. Damn and blast. The letter brought him nothing but trouble.

  …surprise is one of the greatest weapons in our arsenal and to delay any longer than necessary could mean defeat. I will have new ships ready to launch at the end of April; the fleet could reach Venice before Ascension Day. Indeed, there seems no better time…

  He skimmed over the remainder: no more delays…fully prepared…ready to strike… it was full of the saber rattling so typical of the duke. And foolhardy, as well—it left them only six months to prepare for an all-out attack.

  Bedmar wondered if the count of Segovia’s regiments, still fighting in the Netherlands, would be able to get to Venice in such a short time; in all his calculations their experienced support was an essential element of success. Mother of Christ, six months! As usual, the duke had asked the impossible; but the marquis had managed to achieve the impossible before. And damn if he would show his displeasure in front of Utrillo-Navarre.

  The young viscount stood nearby as Bedmar read Ossuna’s letter and mulled over his reply. The message, the marquis reflected, was not entirely contained within the text. Antonio Perez was an unusual choice for a messenger, but Bedmar knew better than to let on that he was aware of this. When he had first entered Signorina Rossetti’s house and seen the viscount there, his eyes, well trained to conceal his thoughts, had fleetingly betrayed his surprise.

  Only once before, at Ossuna’s palace in Naples, had Bedmar been face-to-face with the duke’s most trusted and lethal assassin, whose swordsmanship was known throughout Italy and Spain. Utrillo-Navarre was still young, but Bedmar could see a bit of his father, the old viscount, in the boy’s tall, solid form and confident expression. Now there was a man in the grand old tradition—they’d once crossed swords, fought until neither could stand, then called it a deuce and gone away friends. The marquis had been sorry when he’d heard of his passing. But the son? It was unlikely that a similar camaraderie would develop, given the circumstances.

&nb
sp; Utrillo-Navarre’s presence in Venice brought everything into question; Bedmar had recognized at once the threat he embodied. First, to Alessandra; Ossuna had more than once made it clear that he thought her a danger to their security. Second, to himself. Ossuna had managed to bring Antonio Perez into Venice unnoticed. Next time, the duke seemed to be warning him, even you won’t know that he is there.

  What was behind the duke’s sudden need to launch their assault a full two months ahead of the date on which they’d earlier agreed? It made no sense to strike before Bedmar could assemble all his troops—unless the duke planned to strike at him as well.

  It was no secret that Ossuna was unpopular in Naples. Did he have designs on the viceroyalty of Venice, Bedmar’s intended post after the victory? The marquis stole a glance at Perez. Perhaps the duke’s new scheme was that Bedmar would not survive the battle—and no doubt Utrillo-Navarre would be close at hand to make certain of it.

  If Ossuna wanted to play the blackguard, he would be the one to lose, Bedmar thought darkly. The duke’s warning was meaningless to him, and irritating as well. It would have to be answered in just the right manner, and in a way that Ossuna would never expect. At once Bedmar hit on the perfect reply, a reply that had begun to take shape as soon as he’d seen Perez, and sat down at the writing desk.

  Your Excellency—

  It would be my pleasure to oblige your new instruction. I will accelerate readiness on all fronts and will send maps as soon as they are complete.

  So generous of you to send your esteemed viscount to Venice. Indeed, his return is required, as he can be of much service here. I will of course see to it that his visit is unnoted and that he is without want for as long as he is in my care.