The Scarlet Contessa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  My expression softened at this unexpected show of affection; Caterina saw it, withdrew her hand, and shrugged.

  “Besides,” she added offhandedly, “you’re my talisman. If anything should happen to you, I am lost.”

  In the morning, two gifts were delivered from the Palazzo Borgia directly to my mistress’s chambers: a large ruby pendant, encircled by tiny diamonds, and a small silver perfume vial inlaid with shimmering mother-of-pearl. Borgia’s messenger refused to hand over the items to anyone other than Caterina herself; and when she arrived in her study to accept them, the messenger went down on both knees and bowed so low, his nose grazed the floor.

  “As I bow before your beauty, my master bows, too,” he recited, “and begs you to accept these gifts, which cannot do you justice. He says, ‘The Illustrious Madonna Caterina is the bravest, the most amazing, woman I have ever met.’ ” As an aside, the messenger added, “He means it sincerely, Your Illustriousness; I have never seen him so enamored.”

  As the servant lifted his face, Caterina favored him with a gracious smile. “Let one of my ladies escort you to the kitchen; tell them to give you a glass of our best wine. Wait there until I summon you. I am preparing a response for your master that you will take back to him.”

  She signaled to Teodora, who led the messenger off, and then she turned to me. “There is no time for cipher. I will send a letter, written in your hand.”

  I sat obligingly at the desk, and took up the quill as Caterina dictated:

  To His most esteemed Holiness, Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia,

  I have appreciated our talks and your candor, and shall always consider you a dear friend. However, I have recently discovered that I am with child. Political discourse no longer holds any attraction for me; my focus must now be on my heir, who will need his father and his mother, as well as the support of his relatives, including Cardinal della Rovere and, of course, the Holy Father, Pope Sixtus.

  Forgive me for being too indisposed to continue our discussions. I am returning the ruby pendant herewith; as for the other gift, I will guard and treasure it always.

  Respectfully,

  Her Illustrious Highness, Contessa Caterina Sforza

  The unhappy messenger returned to his master with the ruby and Caterina’s letter within the hour. Borgia would be angry, but he would not kill a woman, according to everyone in Rome. That night, I lay my head upon the pillow, greatly relieved that I should no longer have to be party to clandestine meetings with the Spanish cardinal.

  My relief lasted only one day.

  The following morning, I awoke before dawn to the sound of Caterina retching in the basin left for that specific purpose on her night table. I roused one of the chambermaids sleeping across the hall, and sent her to fetch bread and salt. Caterina continued to heave for a good half hour, by which time she was exhausted. I washed her face and hands and helped her change into a clean dressing gown, then propped her up in her bed, where she remained, nibbling tentatively on the salted bread.

  The sun rose on a blistering, humid morning, one that Girolamo, who despised Roman summers, was still spending in the more forgiving clime of the Romagna countryside. Not an hour later, one of the guards at the door called at Caterina’s bedchamber door to announce that Cardinal Borgia had arrived and was quite determined to see her.

  “Send him away,” Caterina groaned. “I’m ill. Tell him I will accept a letter from him, but I cannot meet him in person. And if he will not go, notify my bodyguards that he should be removed, forcibly if necessary, from the grounds.”

  The effort of speaking made her queasy, and I laid a damp, cool washcloth upon her forehead as the servant replied, “Yes, Your Illustrious Highness.”

  He had barely spoken before we heard a disturbance out in the corridor: The servant was arguing with another man; sounds of a slight physical scuffle entailed.

  Suddenly, the door swung open and Rodrigo Borgia appeared upon the threshold. With his right hand, he held off the slighter, shorter servant with ease. As the smaller man vainly swung his fists at Borgia, the cardinal gazed intently at Caterina. His coldly composed features could not entirely hide his rage, revealed by the taut, faintly twitching skin just beneath his narrowed eyes.

  “Forgive my rudeness,” he said to Caterina. “But this matter requires me to be bold.”

  “Stop,” Caterina ordered the servant, who dropped his fists, at which point Borgia released his hold.

  “You can go,” Caterina told the red-faced servant. “Only remember what I asked for.”

  The servant bowed and ran off. Borgia entered the bedchamber and nodded at me. “She must leave, too.”

  Caterina replied defiantly, “She will stay! You cannot barge into a lady’s bedchamber and insist on speaking to her alone. Besides, I told you I was ill.”

  Borgia loomed over Caterina, and stooped to bring his face down to her level as his large hands clutched the edge of the mattress. I stayed beside my mistress and put my arms upon her shoulders.

  “You have played me for a fool, Madonna,” he whispered hoarsely. “Such a deceitful little creature you are! I thought you actually cared for me.”

  Caterina scowled obstinately at him, but her answer was unexpectedly soft.

  “I do care for you, Rodrigo. I admire your brilliance and ambition. I thought you realized that you were dealing with someone like you.”

  He straightened and moved a step back. “You do flatter yourself, my dear. How did you expect me to react to your flagrant deception?”

  Caterina’s tone turned coy. “What deception?”

  Borgia caught hold of Caterina’s forearm. “Give me the vial,” he warned.

  “Let go of me,” she snarled.

  “I trusted you with my greatest secret,” Borgia said, “and you have betrayed me.”

  He shoved me backward; I lost my hold of Caterina, and struck the wall with my back. With the other arm, he jerked Caterina from the bed. Her bare feet became tangled in the bedding; she fell to the floor on her knees, vomiting on the way down, and splattering the front of his garment.

  Borgia recoiled, startled but not squeamish. He made way as I rushed to the kneeling Caterina’s side and held her hair back as she retched again, this time onto a fine Persian carpet she had brought from Milan.

  “She is pregnant, isn’t she?” he asked in wonder, his tone suddenly gentle.

  I nodded. To my amazement, he fetched the basin from her night table, and brought a towel so that I could clean her face.

  Angered, Caterina pushed away the towel. “I did not lie about that!” she gasped, and pushed herself into a sitting position. “Or about my admiration for you. I swear I will not harm you—but I must protect myself. I’m going to have a child, who may or may not be yours.”

  Together, Borgia and I helped her back onto her bed.

  She sighed as she closed her eyes and lay back upon the pillows. “I thought at first I had eaten something that disagreed with me. But now there is no doubt that I am with child. I cannot carry out our plan now. I cannot jeopardize the baby. He will need a father to take care of him.”

  “If it is mine,” Borgia responded urgently, “then we will know when he is born and grows old enough to favor his sire. And if it is mine, Caterina, I will find a way to raise him as my own.”

  The sound of rapid, heavy footfall on the distant stairs made him lift his face to listen; the guards were coming. Quickly, he added, “I will not harm you, and if you give birth to my child, we will talk again, most seriously. But if it is not my child, hear my promise: the day will come when I seek recompense for what you have taken from me. And should you ever share it with another . . . You will deeply regret what you have done.”

  The guards arrived and knocked upon the door; Caterina called for them to enter. A trio of armed men escorted Borgia out of the palazzo, “with full courtesy,” as Caterina demanded.

  Once more, I was relieved to be rid of Rodrigo Borgia—but again, the respite would be only
temporary.

  Summer gave way to a temperate autumn, followed by a winter so sunny and mild that I swore I would never spend another winter in Milan. Girolamo returned from “military business” in the Romagna just in time to enjoy the improved weather. Caterina’s morning sickness eased after another month, by which time her pregnancy showed, and she demurely announced to Girolamo that, God willing, she would give birth to his son in the spring. He received the news with only a bit of suspicion, which soon wore off as he considered the advantages of having an heir to pursue the family interests. Eventually he became quite indulgent of Caterina, for she wisely gave up her social life and stayed at home, entertaining no one save those pertinent to Girolamo’s political interests, which included Girolamo’s disapproving cousin, the powerful and wealthy Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere.

  As for me, I spent my days attending my increasingly cross and bored mistress. Over the months, as the trauma of Matteo’s violent death eased again, I found it easier to smile and speak briefly to Luca, the scribe, when he went out of his way to encounter me.

  Our first Christmas in Rome passed with such pageantry and pomp that Caterina survived the gloominess that overtook her with the season, as her father had been murdered only one year ago during the holidays.

  At last, the New Year, 1478, arrived. In March, Caterina’s first child was born: a daughter, whom she named Bianca after Duke Galeazzo’s iron-willed mother. Fortunately, Bianca arrived a month late by our calculations, enough to convince Girolamo (and Caterina) that she was his daughter.

  Caterina had borne the pains of labor with amazing courage for a first-time mother; to everyone’s relief, the child was well-positioned and the birth an easy one. In the moments after Bianca emerged from the womb, the midwife cleaned the baby, swaddled it, and laid it on the chest of its exhausted mother, in hopes that it would suckle.

  Caterina stared down at it. “It is a boy, isn’t it?” she demanded of the midwife, who shook her head.

  “It’s a girl, Madonna, but such a beautiful girl! Ser Girolamo will still be pleased.”

  Caterina turned her face away from the baby. “Take it to the nursemaid,” she said flatly.

  I reached for the baby first, and scooped her up. She was beet-faced and misshapen from the trauma of birth, so that her features gave no hint as to her paternity. She had been born with a surprisingly thick tuft of hair, dark gold like her mother’s, although, to my and Caterina’s giddy relief, it was wavy, not tightly curly.

  After an initial fit of squawling, she quieted in my arms. It was I who took her to the nursemaid, at Caterina’s insistence, and I who visited the nursery three times a day to hold her and coo to her in the months that followed. Unlike her mother, the child had a sweet, quiet disposition.

  Caterina’s total lack of interest in the child disgusted me, especially when I considered that, although he had been unable to attend the christening, Rodrigo Borgia sent the baby a pair of tiny ruby earrings and a beautifully engraved silver rattle.

  Two months passed. By the first of May I felt housebound and restless; I had not left the palazzo for weeks, as I spent my days not only caring for Caterina, but also constantly checking on little Bianca and giving my lady reports on her baby’s progress, whether Caterina wanted them or not. She listened to them with a distant expression, and had little to say in response.

  Girolamo, on the other hand, was a far more attentive parent, and every night before supper, he came into the nursery and played with Bianca, who adored him. I was often there at the same time, and, watching Girolamo make funny faces for his giggling daughter, came to see him in a different light.

  On an early May afternoon, after working very hard to care for my two charges, I received permission to go for a stroll out in the strong sunshine. The weather was delightful as I made my way out into the east garden. Within minutes, I arrived at the little glade where Caterina first experienced ecstasy with the dead Frenchman. At the sight of the scribe, Luca, I stopped in my tracks.

  He sat on the bench, bent halfway forward from the waist, his breathing labored, his arms wound around himself, as if he were struggling to keep something dangerous from bursting out. At the sound of my steps, he looked up immediately, his eyes wild with horror.

  “Luca,” I gasped, and went to his side. “Luca, what’s wrong? What has happened?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Leave me, please,” he said in a very low voice. “I must get control of myself. There is still a chance the count might need me.” A grimace of what seemed to be physical pain twisted his lips and brow; he bent farther forward and tightened his grip on his arms.

  I moved to stand beside him. “No,” I answered gently, and lightly rested my palm on his shoulder. “I cannot leave you like this. Not until I’m sure you’ll be all right.”

  “I can’t,” he said desperately. “I can’t . . .”

  He covered his eyes with his hands. Several deep, hitching gasps made his shoulders shake; the movement was accompanied by short moans of pain.

  I sank down onto the seat beside him. “Oh, poor Luca,” I murmured. “You’re crying.”

  He turned his face toward me; there were no tears in his eyes, but his expression revealed grief. His words came in a fevered rush.

  “I did my best to warn him,” he whispered. “But Lorenzo has always scoffed at the need for protection. No one would dare lay a hand on him in Florence, he said. He would take care, would keep an eye on Archbishop Salviati . . .”

  “No!” I cried out. “No, Lorenzo cannot be dead!” Along with sorrow came an all-consuming burst of rage against Count Girolamo; I wanted to kill him. I began to weep, but Luca caught my elbow.

  “Lorenzo is only wounded,” he said gently. “He will recover.”

  “Thank God!” I said.

  “But his younger brother, Giuliano . . .” Luca began. He could not continue, but instead produced more harsh, staccato sounds—sobbing, I realized, without tears. If his eyes were red-rimmed, the count would grow suspicious. Luca’s life now depended on his ability to hide his grief.

  The scribe gathered himself and haltingly told the tale:

  Girolamo and Sixtus had left the actual assassination in the hands of one Archbishop Salviati, who recruited Francesco de’ Pazzi, the Medici’s most powerful banking rival, to help with the attack. They agreed that both Lorenzo and his brother, Giuliano, had to die, since the Florentines would rally around the survivor should only one be killed. And the archbishop, bereft of all decency, arranged for the attack to take place in Florence’s great cathedral, in the middle of mass, when both brothers were distracted.

  Giuliano and Lorenzo were in separate areas of the sanctuary, but each was unwittingly surrounded by different assassins. When the priest raised the chalice to bless the wine, the killers struck. Young Giuliano was unarmed and standing next to Archbishop Salviati and Pazzi at that instant; both drew knives and slashed the young Medici mercilessly, then left him to die in a pool of his own blood.

  His older brother fared better. Perhaps Luca’s repeated warnings had kept Lorenzo alert, for the instant his would-be killer struck at him from behind, Lorenzo drew his own sword and whirled on the attacker. A short battle ensued, but Lorenzo’s friends soon surrounded him and pushed him into the safety of the sacristy—away from the assassins and the sight of his dying brother.

  “Count Girolamo and Sixtus underestimated the loyalty of the Florentines,” Luca said grimly. “Salviati and Pazzi had both convinced them that the assassination would cause the citizens to rise up against the Medici and rally behind the Pazzi family, who are Sixtus’s puppets. Quite the opposite happened. Within hours of the attack, the people seized Salviati and Pazzi and hung them from the upper windows of the government palace.

  “Count Girolamo received the news not an hour ago. He is furious, and trying to figure out how to break the news to the pope. This will not end well. There will be war between Rome and Florence.”

  “Poor Giul
iano,” I murmured, as tears filled my eyes. But at least his suffering was over. His older brother’s grief and guilt would haunt him the rest of his days.

  “How can you bear it,” I demanded of Luca, “knowing that you are working for the man who murdered Giuliano? A man who cannot wait to kill Lorenzo? How can you not want revenge?”

  Luca leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and shook his head sadly. “Don’t you see, such hatred only leads to more bloodshed. And the vendetta continues. . . .”

  “But they killed Giuliano because they were greedy and wanted Imola!”

  “It goes far deeper than that,” Luca explained. “Count Girolamo and the Holy Father want to kill Lorenzo because they believe Lorenzo poisoned Sixtus’s favorite son, Pietro Riario. Pietro was the most powerful, shrewdest young cardinal in Rome, clearly destined to become pope. Sixtus sent him to talk to Lorenzo about the acquisition of Imola. Within a day of returning home from the unsuccessful negotiation in Florence, however, Pietro died suddenly. Sixtus and Girolamo are convinced that Lorenzo is to blame. No amount of reason will convince them otherwise.”

  “Did Lorenzo kill him?” I whispered.

  Luca looked at me as though I had struck him. “Of course not! We obey a power holier than the Church.”

  I turned my face away, unable to keep tears from spilling down my cheeks. “I’m a fraud,” I said. “I wasn’t worthy of Matteo’s company, or of yours. I see what is to come in the triumph cards, but I was never able to make contact with the angel. I only want to find the man who killed my Matteo. I’m a wicked person.”

  He put an arm around my shoulder. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “Just let go of it, Dea, and trust the angel.”

  “But I can’t let it go!” I struggled halfheartedly to pull free of him. “I can’t! If you had seen how Matteo suffered at the end . . .”

  “I did.” Luca’s tone was firm and calm.

  I turned on him angrily. “Then how can you forget it? How can you tell me that a person as saintly as Matteo should have suffered so? Should have died so young, with his killer never being punished for the crime?”