When the sun slipped low in the sky, I asked Caterina permission to take “my walk” as usual.
“Hardly the weather for walking,” she said slyly, smirking. At my stricken expression, her smirk transformed to a frank grin. “Go ahead, but don’t get wet.”
I murmured something about walking the corridors, then curtsied and hurried from my lady’s apartments toward the count’s, and the haven of the storage chamber adjacent to the scribe’s office. It had been a long time since I had visited the dim closet of a room, but little had changed: the shelves still held stacks of clerical supplies. There was just enough floor for two people to lie down side by side, but not enough for either of them to stretch out an arm.
But there were a few significant differences: for one, Luca was standing there, with a lit lamp, and for another, there was a dark blue woolen cloak that had been spread out to cover most of the cold floor. When I opened the door and entered, Luca hurried to set the lamp upon one of the shelves, and quickly locked the door behind me. Only then did we embrace.
As he kissed me, he pressed his lean, trembling body so hard against mine that I had to take a step backward, lest I fall; I kissed him back, pushing with equal fervor. All the while, I was distracted by the wool cloak on the floor. Was this a sign that Luca had decided to deflower me? I reached between his legs, but he pushed my hand away.
“Not for me today,” he breathed into my ear. “Lie down, Dea.”
I lay down upon the fine blue wool, my head toward the count’s gardens, my feet pointed at the locked door. He knelt beside me and tenderly drew up my skirts and petticoats to expose my legs and hips.
“Don’t do anything,” he whispered. “Just lie back.”
As he spoke, he began to lightly run his hands outside my legs and over my abdomen, which made me tremble. I forced myself not to move and closed my eyes.
Luca’s hands caressed the outside of my legs again, then moved between them. I parted them at once, and moaned softly as he ran his fingers and palms over the skin of my inner thighs, up and down, featherlight. Deftly, he insinuated his body between my legs; I tried to pull him up so his face was even with mine, but he waved my hands away, his face so close to the mound of my pubic hair that I could feel his warm breath.
He stroked the inside of my thighs again, then slowly moved to the delta of hair, and gently put his hand upon it. I squeezed my eyes harder shut and tried not to think of Bona or be ashamed. Instead, I lost myself in the sensation of fingers gingerly touching my most private part; as I began to relax, letting my mouth open as my breath came faster, I felt his fingertips slowly circle from my uppermost thigh around the delta, across my abdomen, then down again.
Just when I felt I could bear the mounting desire no longer, the fingers went lower, and parted the lips between my legs; I gasped when I felt Luca’s tongue there, teasing the small bump of flesh hidden within the folds. Then he raised himself up, put two fingers upon the sensitive flesh and massaged it in a circular fashion, an act that made me squirm with delight.
Afterward he let the tip of his finger linger sensually at the opening to my womb, then slid it in to the first knuckle, then the second, and plunged his finger entirely inside me.
He moved his finger, slowly at first, then with increasing force and speed; I ground my hips into the floor and moaned. I wanted him badly, but before I could speak, he began to massage two fingers on my most sensitive flesh, while at the same time plunging his finger in and out of me.
I was lost to pleasure. I writhed on the floor, not caring whether we were discovered, not caring about anything other than the magic Luca’s hands were creating. In the midst of this, he lifted his head to look at me and removed one hand. Something soft and white struck my face: his handkerchief.
“You must be as quiet as possible,” he whispered. “Put the handkerchief in your mouth, and when the time comes, bite down hard on it so that you don’t scream.”
I frowned, perplexed. “Scream?”
He lifted his face higher, so that I could see his wicked grin. “You’ll understand when it happens. Just try not to make any noise.”
I dutifully wadded up the linen kerchief and put it in my mouth. Luca’s fingers returned to the exquisitely sensitive mound of flesh and my womb.
Soon there was nothing but the pleasure. My body and mind transcended all external circumstances, all time; no wonder Caterina had been willing to risk everything for such bliss.
I sensed imminent dissolution, no distance between me and the rest of the entire world; my legs went rigid and my backed arched as if I were in the throes of lockjaw. A wave of ecstatic energy coursed up from my feet, through my legs, and exploded when it reached my pelvis. My womb contracted around Luca’s finger—again, again, again—and with it came the most pleasurable sensation I had ever known.
At the last instant, I remembered to bite down hard upon the kerchief to keep from howling, though I surely made noise; when I came to myself again, Luca was bending over me, begging for quiet.
The year that passed was bittersweet, as Luca and I had little time to spend alone with each other. The war between Florence and the Naples-Rome alliance continued, and the Florentines remained staunch in their support of Lorenzo, although it grew harder with each month to keep a supply of food coming into the city on the River Arno.
Christmas passed, and the New Year, 1479, arrived. In late January, Caterina announced that she was pregnant again, though her condition did not prevent her from occasionally drilling the troops with Girolamo; eventually, Girolamo trusted her enough to lead the entire drill while he sat back and watched. Rumors began that the soldiers were more loyal to Caterina than to their impatient, hotheaded captain.
During the long months of her confinement, Caterina did not pamper herself, but instead recruited one of Girolamo’s commanders to teach her how to handle her sword and shield while on horseback. Even as her belly swelled, her arms and legs grew more muscular and lean, and her strength grew formidable.
By the time she gave birth again, in August of 1479, she was so strong that the labor itself lasted only four hours, and she expelled a robust, healthy child. At the sight of the baby’s tiny male member, she laughed softly, pleased.
“A son,” the midwife crowed, and we all smiled.
“His father and I have agreed to name him Ottaviano,” Caterina announced, her voice an exhausted whisper, her mood exultant. She laid her head back down upon the pillow and sighed as the wailing child was set upon her breast.
“Ottaviano,” I echoed. The name of the first Roman emperor; Caterina and Girolamo clearly had high expectations for their little son.
“A son,” Caterina repeated. “Perhaps, someday, I will rule as his regent.”
She smiled faintly at the thought, while the midwife and I shared a fleeting look of concern at my lady’s words. Caterina could rule as regent in place of an underage son, but only if Girolamo died first; what an ill omen, to speak of the father’s death only moments after the son’s birth!
The boy’s arrival caused much more of a stir than baby Bianca’s had. He was christened by Pope Sixtus himself, and an army of well-wishers trooped through the palazzo the week after Ottaviano’s birth to deliver gifts and fawn over mother and infant. Rather than receive her guests in bed, as was the custom of most noble mothers, Caterina insisted on sitting up in a lavishly appointed reception room, the boy in her arms. Even Cardinal Borgia came. Girolamo was ecstatic with pride.
Little Ottaviano’s appetite was voracious, and the baby swiftly grew into a miniature version of Girolamo, with the same long limbs, equine features, and overpowering jaw . . . and the same faintly hostile dullness in his eyes. His sister, Bianca, was more than a year older, but even before Ottaviano could walk, he had grown larger and longer than she, and much fatter. Yet unlike his sister, he was slow to develop mentally; I visited him and his sister almost every day in the nursery, and while Bianca was an affectionate child who loved to be held, Ottaviano squirmed and whim
pered and fought his way out of my arms.
As the months passed, Girolamo went from being exultant—victory against Florence seemed assured, as the Neapolitan army had succeeded in blocking all supplies from coming into the city—to being furious. By the time Ottaviano celebrated his first Christmas, Girolamo had learned of Lorenzo’s secret gambit.
Unable to bear the sight of his people starving, yet unwilling to surrender them to Girolamo and Sixtus’s despotic rule, Lorenzo somehow escaped Florence and the armies surrounding her. Alone, he rode for more than a fortnight before reaching Naples. There, he offered himself to King Ferrante, asking only that the king first speak with him about the Florentine people before executing him or sending him on to Rome.
Lorenzo’s courageous act and his genuine respect for Ferrante so impressed the Neapolitan king that he ordered Lorenzo be treated as a guest, free to roam the palace grounds. Ferrante entertained and dined with Florence’s first citizen, discussing everything except the war. After weeks of being pampered and showered with gifts, but not allowed to plead on behalf of his people, Lorenzo finally returned home.
But his gambit worked. Food began to find its way into Florence, and by the early spring of 1480, King Ferrante provoked the pope’s wrath by calling his army home to Naples.
Outraged over the “loss” of Florence, Girolamo and Sixtus turned their territorial ambition to the Romagna, the rolling fertile countryside that lies just northeast of the Medici stronghold of Tuscany. The city of Imola was not enough for Girolamo; he lusted after the nearby towns of Faenza, Pesaro, and Forlì.
His machinations to take Faenza failed, however, as King Ferrante made it clear that Naples would protect Faenza at all costs. Nor did he dare invade Pesaro, as the Milanese promised war if Pesaro were attacked.
Forlì was especially attractive as its ruler, Pino Ordelaffi, had just died and left no immediate heir other than a sickly, illegitimate fourteen-year-old son, Sinibaldo. True, there were two healthy male cousins eager to claim Forlì, but the pope shrewdly chose to back Sinibaldo, who was far too ill to live long. Sinibaldo happily signed the papers that made him a papal protectorate; should he die without heirs, Forlì would become property of the church.
When the Ordelaffi cousins, Antonio Maria and Francesco, invaded Forlì, however, they quickly routed Sinibaldo’s forces; during the struggle, the housebound Sinibaldo died of “mysterious causes.” Immediately, Girolamo led an army of eight hundred men into Forlì. The Ordelaffis’ small army could not hope to survive the onslaught. At the news of the approaching enemy, Antonio Maria and Francesco fled. On August 9, 1480, Girolamo claimed the town of Forlì for the Riario family. But his dream of possessing a huge swath of Italy—Tuscany and most of the Romagna—was dashed. Nonetheless, we celebrated in the Palazzo Riario in Rome when news came that Forlì, too, was ours—although Caterina was sour at the notion that, instead of taking the full cluster of grapes, her inept husband had managed to pick only two small, rural ones.
Only days after she learned that Forlì was hers, Caterina gave birth to a second son, also named after a Roman emperor: Cesare.
November of that year brought Caterina distressing news: Her stepmother, Bona, who had always been kindly disposed toward her, was removed from power in a bloodless takeover by the late Duke Galeazzo’s younger brother, Ludovico, known as il Moro, “the Moor,” because of his jet-black hair and swarthy complexion.
Caterina’s twelve-year-old half-brother, Gian Galeazzo of the long, flowing blond curls and delicate constitution, was still given to childish tantrums and showed no interest in the affairs of the state he was bound to inherit. He had always resisted Bona’s attempts to educate him in such matters, preferring instead to dedicate himself to the pursuit of pleasure. Perhaps, Caterina suggested halfheartedly, Ludovico would force Gian Galeazzo to become more serious about his responsibility to Milan.
But those of us who had come with her from Milan knew exactly what would happen. Ludovico had been an infrequent visitor to Duke Galeazzo’s house because the duke had always feared his younger brother would steal his kingdom. In public, Ludovico was far more affable than his late brother, but the private man was just as capable of murder and deceit.
Caterina was depressed for weeks over the matter, especially after she reluctantly penned a letter of congratulations to Ludovico and expressed her support for him. In response she received a brief, perfunctory response that Milan was always at her service.
This failed to relieve her worry. Ludovico had never known his niece Caterina very well, nor had they ever developed a bond of affection. In the end, il Moro would show where his true loyalty lay . . . and it was not with Caterina.
He would become the first crack in the cornerstone of the Tower.
The father of the little emperors, Girolamo, became obsessed with stripping Lorenzo of Florence, so virulent was his hatred of the man. When the summer of 1481 arrived, Girolamo announced to Caterina—then five months pregnant—that it was high time she accompany her husband on a pleasure trip, first to glorious Venice, and then to the Romagna and Imola and Forlì, where she would be welcomed by her new subjects. The fact that she would miss the hottest days of the Roman summer made the prospect even more attractive.
Caterina was elated and immediately ordered new gowns. Luca relayed that the count “needed him especially” on the journey, so my beloved would be joining us; I had never been to Venice, and began to grow excited about the notion. Since we would be gone for months, packing for Her Illustriousness took days, as it was necessary to pack for the coming infant as well. The plan was for Caterina to give birth in Forlì, if all went well, for nothing would win her subjects over more quickly than celebrating the arrival of a new child.
Two nights before we were to leave, Caterina arrived back at her apartments quite late after a private dinner with her husband. The chambermaids had retired but I was still dressed, with the light on, sitting alone in front of the flower-filled hearth and shuffling the triumph cards. I had thought to leave them behind, but some instinct prompted me to pull them out and consider putting them in my half-packed trunk.
I looked up as the door to the room opened; Caterina entered, her head down, her face averted. Her expression made me ask, “Madonna? Is everything well with you?”
She shook her head as I set the cards aside and rose. Her lips were pressed together so tightly as to be invisible and her brow was furrowed. She moved toward me and silently thrust out her arm, a demand that her heavy sleeves be removed at once.
I immediately began unlacing one of them, and as I unraveled the silken cord that held the brocade in place, I said softly, “You are troubled, Madonna. How can I help?”
She let go a long tremulous sigh as I pulled one sleeve from her arm, then folded it and set it upon my chair; as I crossed to unlace the other one, she said, her voice breaking, “The bastard. The goddamned bastard!”
I finished unlacing the second sleeve and set it down with the other. “I’m so sorry,” I said, mystified until a sudden explanation for this behavior occurred to me. “Oh, Madonna, don’t tell me that the count has canceled the trip!”
“It’s worse than that,” she said, her face contorting. “I still must go. But Dea, you cannot come!”
With that, she put her hands to her eyes.
I took her wrists gently, and pulled her hands from her face. “There must be a mistake,” I said. “Why would he not allow me to come?”
“He says only those he chooses can accompany me. I am only to have one lady, a della Rovere, in my entourage. I am not allowed to bring anyone from Milan! He is bringing one trusted secretary. He says it is because we are going on a ‘sensitive diplomatic mission.’
“Nothing I can say will make him change his mind. I told him if I could not bring you, I would not go at all, but he says that he will use force to take me.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid, Dea! If I leave you, something awful will happen! I will die in childbirth, or be assassinated
, or be set upon by brigands . . .”
“Hush,” I said, with such confident calm that she did. “Let us get you undressed first, Madonna. Those clothes must be so hot. . . . See, your neck is sweating.”
She raised her arms so that I could lift off her overdress. I removed her headdress, uncoiled her braids, and brushed them out.
As I did, she began to speak again. “Girolamo is going to meet with the Doge himself. Something political is going on; I don’t know what it is, but Girolamo is very excited about it.” Her face crumpled. “I cannot be without you, especially if I’m going to give birth.”
I finished brushing her hair and bade her slip out of her damp chemise and step into a linen nightgown. “You will be fine without me,” I said firmly, hiding the disappointment I felt at being separated from Luca for such a long time. “You’re a grown woman now, and too old for such a silly belief.”
Her gaze locked on the triumph cards stacked neatly on my chair, upon their black silk cloth. “Am I?” she said. “Let’s see what the cards have to say about the journey.”
I sat back down in front of the hearth and she sat in the chair beside mine. I shuffled the cards, then handed them to her and let her shuffle and cut them.
When she was satisfied, she gave them back to me. Instead of setting the deck down, I fanned them out in my hands, the backs of the cards facing her.
“Pick one,” I said. “Just one. That’s all we’ll need.”
Impulsively, she reached for a card, but hesitated at the last instant before her fingers touched it. Finally, she squared her shoulders and drew in a breath, then pulled the card free and showed me its face: the Hanged Man.
I kept my expression carefully neutral as a wave of fear washed over me; I did not forget that I was speaking to an overwrought pregnant woman.
“The Hanged Man,” I said coolly. “We have seen this before. It has to do with sacrifice.” I looked away, unable to meet the terror in her gaze.
“But what does it mean? Will someone die? Will I?”
The Scarlet Contessa Page 30