The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  “Sir, I was not!”

  “Lying does not become you, Madonna,” he admonished, “though I must give you credit for being so observant. There is the matter of the key to my desk. If it is not replaced a certain way under the leg, the desk wobbles.”

  “That is of no concern to me, sir.”

  “You’re quite right about that.” He took a step closer to me, and caught my wrist, pulling me close to him so that he could whisper directly into my ear. “The two documents were not replaced in the drawer correctly, either. You read the letter, didn’t you?”

  I wrested my hand away from him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Then why were you speaking to that boy in the garden? Why did you give him two letters? And why do you look so terrified?”

  I pushed him away; he lost his balance but caught himself from falling. I cursed my heavy skirts as I gathered them up in an attempt to run, but he reached down and caught my elbow, this time holding me fast and pulling me round to face him. We stood nose to nose, close enough to kiss; his breath was warm on my face, his eyes narrowed with piercing urgency.

  “I would hate to see what happened to your husband happen to you,” he whispered. “And if you do not stop the course you are on, Madonna, it will.”

  At that point, Teodora appeared on the landing above us. “There you are!” she said. “Her Illustriousness has been looking for you.”

  As soon as Teodora gazed down at us, Luca released his grip on my arm. I gathered my skirts at once, and without giving the scribe a backward glance, hurried up the stairs on trembling legs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I slept poorly that night as my mind examined all the possible responses to the threat issued by the scribe Luca. He could have already told Count Girolamo of my meddling, in which case I was doomed and my safest course was to rise from my bed in the dark, take one of the horses, and embark on the long trip to Florence.

  But if Luca had informed the count of my transgression, why then had the scribe come to me in secret, to warn me? Count Girolamo was known for his lack of restraint and finesse; if he knew, I would already be dead, or lying on one of the racks in Castel Sant’Angelo’s dungeon.

  By the hour before sunrise, I still had no clear plan for escaping or protecting myself. I had determined only one thing: that I could no longer be patient and wait to discover the truth about my brother’s death.

  In the darkness I rose, dressed myself and, careful not to wake my lady, leaned over her to find the handle of the sheathed dagger tucked just beneath the mattress, in the upper corner where her head normally rested against the pillow. Fortunately, she had rolled into the center of the bed and lay sprawled on her stomach. I teased the dagger out silently, situated it in my skirt pocket so that I could quickly retrieve it, and slipped out the door.

  Most of the servants had not yet risen and the halls were empty, the sconces unlit; I took advantage of the dimness to move unobserved from the contessa’s east wing all the way to the count’s wing in the west. The servants’ dining room was in the bottom corner of the west wing. I hovered a fair distance from it, waiting in the gray morning mist until the strong Roman sun began to rise and the kitchen maid began to ring the large brass dinner bell.

  I peered anxiously at each form making its way through the changing light across the gravel courtyard. The men were grim and shuffling, faces cast downward; the boys ran, giggling and playful, into the dining room. My little messenger was one of the last to arrive; he was limping slowly, and as he neared, I saw that his eye was bruised and swollen.

  When he caught sight of me, he stiffened with fear and glanced over his shoulder, as if thinking to bolt back to the stables. I caught his arm before he could run away and drew him around the corner of the palace, where a tall juniper bush blocked us from the view of those still headed for breakfast.

  “Angelo, what’s happened? Are you all right?”

  He turned his narrow face away from me and tried to stifle a sob; a huge tear slid down his thin cheek. “I don’t think I should speak to you again, Madonna.”

  A wave of guilt overtook me.

  “Oh, Angelo, did they hurt you? I am so sorry! Just tell me what happened to the letters and I won’t bother you ever again.”

  “The stablemaster,” he said, and began to weep in earnest. “He caught me trying to take one of the horses yesterday evening. I explained that I was doing it at the request of one of the contessa’s ladies, but he did not care. He beat me.” He drew in a stuttering breath, and wiped his streaming eyes and nose upon his sleeve.

  “I am so sorry,” I repeated. “I was wrong to involve you in this. You are a good boy, Angelo, and the stablemaster was wrong to hit you. Give me the letters back; I’ll find another way. Please keep the coin.”

  His words spilled out so rapidly and so distorted by a fresh storm of emotion that I had to strain to understand them.

  “I can’t. I don’t have them.”

  Sickened, I caught his thin arm. “What do you mean?”

  “The stablemaster took them. Even the coin.” He shook his head. “He said he was going to give them back to the count so that they could be delivered by someone more responsible. But I am never to take a horse without his permission again. I’m sorry, Madonna. I hope they don’t punish you, too.”

  “It’s all right,” I said, numbed. “You’re a good boy, and I’m sorry I caused you this grief. Thank you for your help.”

  Reason and self-interest said that I should flee at once, yet as I slowly made my way back into the palace, I thought not of the murderous count or his sinister scribe, or of the torture that likely awaited me. Instead, I thought again of Matteo, his dark auburn hair soaked with sweat, the whites of his eyes flushed with blood. With that image came his last request: Tell Lorenzo: Romulus and the Wolf mean to destroy you.

  It seemed ridiculously clear; the symbol of Rome was a she-wolf, and Romulus the child who had suckled at her teat. Who could these be but Pope Sixtus and his murderous son, Girolamo?

  I recalled how, in Milan, the courtier Carlo Visconti had sagged with anguish upon recovering his violated young sister from Duke Galeazzo’s clutches. I recalled the look of bright hatred, of infinite satisfaction, in his eyes at the instant he ran the duke through with his sword.

  For months now I had lived unawares in the household of my beloved’s murderers. If I sought revenge on them, it was unlikely that I would survive long enough to warn Lorenzo that the danger to him had increased manyfold. But if I could not, then I would see to it that the architect of the assassination plot and his henchman were destroyed.

  It was a brilliantly foolish plan, encouraged by the fact that I had brought Caterina’s dagger. I would confront the scribe in his office, learn whether he had told Girolamo of my letter to Lorenzo, force him to confess his role in the murder, dispatch him, and then hurry the short distance to Girolamo’s chamber. I would tell them that I had a private message from my mistress, meant only for her husband’s ears.

  So absorbed was I in these dark thoughts that I found myself in the corridor outside the supply chamber without remembering how I had gotten there. The old servant woman had already lit the wall sconce by the door and replaced the key; as I took it and opened the chamber door, I realized the scribe would have changed the locks. To my surprise, the iron key to the inner office was hidden where it was before and the door opened easily with a single turn of the key.

  To my relief and disappointment, the scribe had not yet arrived, though the lamp was burning. Impulsively, I reached beneath the desk leg, and discovered the key in the same spot. I unlocked the top drawer of the desk and opened it, marveling at the scribe’s carelessness.

  The drawer was empty, save for two items: My encrypted letter to Lorenzo de’ Medici and the cipher key, both with the wax seals broken.

  I grew light-headed as I took the letters. I stuffed them into my pocket and—at the sound of the opposite door opening, the one that led
back to Count Girolamo’s chamber—pulled out the dagger.

  It was the scribe, Luca, holding a plate of cheese and grapes in one hand, and smelling of soap. His jet hair was damp and neatly combed, and he wore a fine indigo tunic trimmed with black and gold braid, as if he were headed to a reception or a holiday mass. He had been waiting for me, cheese in hand, and when he kicked open the door with a flourish, thinking to surprise me, he apparently did not consider how the plate of food detracted from the air of danger he meant to exude.

  His other hand held a knife.

  He moved quickly to set down the plate on his desk, all the while holding the knife on me, and noticing only at the last minute that I, too, held a weapon. He recoiled, especially since he very nearly leaned unawares into the blade.

  I waved the dagger at him as he drew back and pointed his own at me.

  “You killed Matteo,” I hissed. “Admit it!”

  His black brows lifted in surprise. “You are a troubled young woman,” he said. “Either you are a complete fool, which I doubt, or you wish to die and will not do it by your own hand.”

  “Matteo da Prato,” I repeated. “You killed him on Count Girolamo’s order. Last Christmas, when you came to Milan. Confess and accept your fate!”

  He narrowed his eyes first at me, then at the point of my steel dagger. “You could not be more wrong.”

  In the next instant, he lunged at me.

  I forced myself not to recoil, but stepped forward on one foot, as I had seen men do so many times, and struck out with Caterina’s blade. He was too practiced, too nimble, and I swiped at nothing but air. Before I could draw back and go at him again, he grabbed my right wrist and twisted it; Caterina’s dagger clattered to the stone floor. Holding his own knife on me, he reached out with his foot and kicked my blade into the far corner.

  Panting, I contemplated the sharp, shining tip pointed at me and for the moment, stood still. The drawer to the desk was still open; he saw that it was empty, and gestured at me with the knife.

  “The letter, please.” His tone was flat and weary. “And the encryption key. Don’t argue with me; I know you have them.”

  I took them slowly from my pocket, thinking to drop them on the floor just in front of me. He read my intent, and gestured with his weapon at the oil lamp on the desk.

  “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Lift the glass.”

  I moved slowly to the lamp and lifted the glass cover, exposing the flame.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Burn the letters.” He took a step forward and pushed his food-laden plate so that it was flush with the base of the lamp. “You can catch the ashes with this. Spare the cheese, if you would.”

  I held the incriminating letter to Lorenzo to the flame first. As it caught, Luca said softly, “I knew Matteo, if only for a little while, and in that short time, we became friends. But we knew of each other for years.”

  “You lie,” I answered, glancing up from the blackening paper in my hand.

  “I traveled with him from Rome, as one of Girolamo’s envoys along with the papal legates,” he said. “If I killed him, why would I have then deserted my post to get him to help as soon as possible? Why would I have made sure to keep his saddlebag out of unfriendly hands in order to bring it to you, just as he asked me to?”

  I shook my head; the thought was too painful to consider. “You have no proof.”

  “Fool!” he snapped. “Don’t you see that I’m risking my life to protect you?” He lowered his knife and sat down upon his stool as I stood alongside him, and rubbed his forehead as though it pained him.

  By that time, the first letter, the only evidence of my disloyalty to Girolamo, was reduced to a pile of blackened ash resting between a chunk of strong-smelling cheese and a cluster of grapes.

  I began to feed the extra unnecessary copy of my encryption key to the lamp; as I did, he rubbed his brow again.

  “Forgive my temper,” he said. “But you have no idea of the danger you have put us both in. If I give you proof that Matteo and I were friends and swear to you that Ser Lorenzo has already been warned—time and again, yet he chooses to ignore the danger—will you stop your reckless behavior? Will you promise to stay far from my desk and quit endangering your life and those of others?”

  Intrigued but unconvinced, I stared down at him. “Give me proof.”

  He hesitated. “Matteo was an orphan. Like you,” he said, and when I reacted strongly to his words, he added, “Like me. All of us owe our current circumstances to the same generous benefactor. And if you reveal that last fact to anyone, I am dead. Now, perhaps, you can understand why you must not come here again, for my sake, and why you need not be concerned for Lorenzo.”

  I closed my gaping mouth to stare at the wavering flame, dark and smoking where the paper met it, and wondered where else he could have learned this information.

  His thought must have followed mine, for he said, “I don’t understand why you would suspect me. I returned Matteo’s saddlebag with his journal intact. Surely the truth is written there.”

  I turned sharply toward him. “I have no way to translate it; I could not find the key. Were you able to read it? Do you know where the key is?”

  He shook his head. “No. I assumed that you had it.”

  “If you didn’t kill him,” I asked, less than kindly, “then who did?”

  He studied me; his eyes were guarded but held compassion. “Madonna, I don’t know.”

  “You had best give me more proof,” I said.

  The papers were now nothing but a pile of whitening ash on a plate. Luca returned his knife to its sheath, and walked over to the far corner to pick Caterina’s dagger up from the floor.

  “More proof,” he said, as he approached me, the knife in his hand. “Madonna Dea, Matteo would be sad to see you so tormented by the desire for revenge. Besides, how can you be so sure he died of poison and not a strange fever?”

  I lifted my chin and said coldly, “He told me to warn Lorenzo of Romulus and the Wolf.”

  He did not pretend that he did not understand the names. “There is no question that Girolamo and Sixtus are devoted to destroying Lorenzo,” Luca said. “But they had no cause to kill Matteo. I will say this: he would not have hated his murderer, as you do. He may have suffered physically at the last, but he did not torture himself mentally, as you are doing now.

  “And now, even after I brought Matteo home in an effort to save him, gave you his saddlebag, and have let you destroy the very documents that damned you—not to mention the fact that I am risking my hide by letting you inside this chamber—you want more proof. So I will tell you this, Madonna: that you saw the Hanged Man in the stars. And that your brother was very happy before his death. Why trouble me with these questions? Why do you not consult the one who would gladly guide you?”

  He turned the dagger carefully in his hand so that he held it by the sharp tip, and presented the handle to me.

  I took it, resheathed it, and placed it back in my pocket. Your brother was very happy before his death. Brother, not husband—a secret I shared only with Matteo and the Medici. I covered my eyes with my hands and began to cry.

  “Ah, no,” I heard him say. “Anything but tears. Hush, this is too dangerous! Please be quiet! Go back to your mistress! And never speak of this to anyone!”

  I felt myself being pushed toward the door, then over the threshold; the door closed behind me, and the bolt behind it slid shut with a click. After a moment I gathered myself, and made my way slowly back to Caterina’s wing.

  I was still stunned by my encounter with Luca a few hours later, when a messenger on horseback arrived “with a social invitation from a friend, for Her Illustrious Highness’s eyes only.” I took the letter from a house servant, who explained that the messenger was outside, awaiting an immediate reply. I handed it to Caterina, who was sitting in her study dictating her regular correspondence to her social secretary. She cracked the seal on the letter, opened it no more than a finger’
s breadth, then swiftly closed it again, her eyes wide with anticipation, her lips firmly pressed together to prevent a smile. She waved her secretary and cupbearer outside, but gestured for me to remain; when the door had closed over them, she opened the letter to reveal it was written in cipher—my cipher, rendered in a French hand.

  “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—”