by Sara Poole
Revulsion overcame me. I turned away, staggering, and would have fallen had not Renaldo—bless him—somehow found the courage to reach out and steady me. Though he held me at arm’s length to minimize the damage to his fine garments, he kept me on my feet.
Cesare glanced around the room, then down at the dead men. Loudly enough for all to hear, he said, “The condition of this chamber and the fact that both men were armed makes it clear that Donna Francesca is speaking the truth. She acted to defend herself.”
“You cannot believe that!” Herrera exclaimed. He looked stricken with horror at the thought. “No normal woman would be able to do what she has done. She is the spawn of the Devil! You put your very soul at risk by having anything to do with her. You must reject her and everything she represents!”
“Miguel—” Cesare began, as though about to make a sincere effort to explain to the other man why he had it all backwards, why sending men to search a room and then attack a woman was wrong even if one did believe her to be a servant of the Devil. But if that was what he meant to say, he reconsidered. Falling silent, he stared at the Spaniard for a long moment before he looked to Vittoro.
“Escort Don Miguel and his retinue to their quarters and make sure that they stay there. Not one of them goes anywhere until morning, is that understood?”
Herrera protested loudly, but Cesare ignored him. The Spaniards were quickly surrounded by men-at-arms, who marched them out of the room and out of sight.
I breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone, only to realize that the problem was far from solved. The room remained in chaos, and there were the two dead bodies, as well as so much blood …
“Renaldo,” Cesare said, “find a priest, then muster the servants. See to it that these men are buried with all speed and that the room is cleaned. I don’t care if it takes all night, I don’t want any hint left of what happened here.”
“Of course, Your Eminence,” Renaldo said, as though he had been carrying out such orders all his life.
Cesare turned to me. He gripped my arm, shook me hard, and said, “Look at me, Francesca.”
I looked, seeing in his face the question I dreaded he would ask. Had I been in my right mind when I killed the men?
“They attacked me,” I said again, but the words sounded weak to my own ears. I had been attacked; I had acted to defend myself. But I had killed in the grip of the darkness that I could neither control nor deny. If I was not what I was, the men would still be alive.
“Lucky for you,” he said and strode down the corridor with me in tow.
I had to run to keep up with him even as I struggled to understand what he was saying. Did he really believe that I would have killed the men without provocation, simply because I came upon them searching my room? Or worse, merely because I needed to kill? Was there any chance that he was right?
Cesare had left his valet behind in Viterbo; we were alone. In the middle of the room, he released me.
“Take off your clothes.” When I hesitated, still grappling with the notion that he thought I could have killed so wantonly, he said, “They’re covered with blood. Take them off.”
Reminded of my condition, I moved as quickly as I could to comply, but my hands were shaking too much to be of any use. Cesare made a sound of impatience and took charge. He used the blade he wore at his side to cut through the laces and ties holding my garments in place. As he worked, they fell away. I was left in nothing other than the short chemise I wore against my skin.
“That, too,” he said.
I glanced down to see that the blood had soaked through all the layers of my clothing even to the chemise. Quickly, fearing that I was about to retch, I pulled it off over my head.
Cesare gathered the clothes and dropped them in a far corner of the room. I stood naked and shivering, watching him as he did so. He returned to me holding out a blanket.
“You need to wash.”
Neither of us was of a mind to endure servants trooping in and out to fill the bathtub in the adjacent room. Instead, I made do with the contents of the ewer provided when Cesare returned from hunting and long since cooled to the temperature of the room. That didn’t matter; nothing did except that there was water and soap. With Cesare’s help, I was able to wash the blood from my hair, my face, my body, and most especially from my hands, which were caked with it. He even produced a small brush to help me remove the last traces from around and under my nails. I scrubbed and scrubbed until finally he stopped me.
“Enough. You will injure yourself.”
By then, I was shaking so hard that I could scarcely stand. Cesare led me over to the bed and sat me down. Gripping the blanket around myself, I said, “You taught me to use a knife.”
My intention may have been to remind him that there was an entirely plausible explanation for how I had managed to kill the men. However, he was not persuaded.
“You are too modest. I have trained men who would not have been able to do what you did.”
“What do you think, then? That Herrera is right and I am possessed by the Devil?” Without giving him a chance to answer, I added, “The Spaniard would burn me, you know, if he could. And he is far from alone.”
Cesare sat down on the bed beside me. Quietly, he said, “He cannot. Besides, none of this is really because of you. You just have the bad luck to be involved with me.”
Accustomed as I was to the Borgias’ believing that Creation itself revolved around them, I was surprised all the same. Until I remembered what I had discovered about the Spaniard in the passetto.
“You have to understand about Don Miguel,” Cesare continued. “He’s actually an intelligent, well-educated man, not to mention a gifted architect. He’s shown me a design of his for a dome that, assuming his calculations regarding the weight-bearing stones are correct, would be revolutionary.”
I stared at him in bewilderment. Here I had thought that all Cesare and Herrera did together was hunt, whore, and drink. But they had actually been poring over architectural plans and discussing the finer points of dome construction?
“I’m not excusing anything he has done,” Cesare continued. “I’m just saying that Miguel fights a constant battle with his own nature. Not surprisingly, that puts a great strain on him, as it would on anyone. You, above all, should understand that.”
I should understand Herrera? I should … what? Accept that he wanted to consign me to the flames because he was in love with Cesare?
“Oh, yes,” I said. “By all means, let’s make allowances for his wounded heart.”
Cesare shrugged. “Of course, even if my proclivities did run in that direction, I could not allow myself to return his affections.”
“Why not?”
“Because while I remain the object of his unfulfilled desire, he will do everything he possibly can to please me. Such is the nature of all men, regardless of whom they like to climb into bed with.”
He was right, of course. Ruthless and heartless, but definitely right. However, that raised a question. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I need you to help save him from the assassin, no matter how much reason you have to hate and fear him.”
In a way, I was relieved. Cesare’s concern seemed to suggest that he was not playing a deep game against his own father’s wishes. Or perhaps he simply wanted me to believe that.
“Surely,” I said, “neither Herrera nor the alliance is so important now that Il Papa and the Comte have become such great friends.”
“Do not be misled by the false bonhomie of schemers as clever as that pair. The French king’s hunger for land and power is equaled only by my father’s. Inevitably, they will clash, and when they do, la famiglia will need the Spanish more than ever.”
Which meant that Cesare would need Herrera, albeit for entirely cold-blooded reasons.
Grudgingly, I said, “So long as he refrains from trying to consign me to the pits of Hell, I have no particular reason to want him dead.”
“Or his servants?�
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“Are we not in agreement that I was provoked and acted in self-defense?”
Cesare stood up. He went over to the heap of bloodied clothes that he had dropped in a corner. When he returned, he was holding my pouch. Opening it, he withdrew the knife I had found near the thornbushes.
“I thought this felt unusually heavy,” he said as he tossed the pouch aside. Turning the knife over in his hands, he said, “The shape, even when concealed, is quite distinctive. This is the type of knife carried by Herrera’s servants.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said, despising the weakness of my voice. I had meant to tell him about the knife, I really had. But the opportunity had never presented itself, and besides, with him entertaining the notion that I had killed the servant in the alley, how could I be expected to tell him anyway?
“I only thought it had been used to kill the man,” I added.
“You thought that, did you? When?”
“When I discovered it on the slope of the hill near where you found me the other night.”
“The night when you can’t remember where you went or what you did?”
I nodded, fully realizing how damning that sounded. “That night. But surely I don’t have to point out the obvious? When you found me, there was blood on my feet but nowhere else.” I gestured toward the pile of clothes that I could only think would have to be burned. “If I had killed that man, everything I was wearing would have been covered with blood just as it is now.”
I could think of few benefits to killing two men as I had done, apart from the obvious one of preserving my own life. But being forcefully reminded of just how messy a business killing is, especially when done with a knife, removed from me all fear that I could have killed the Spanish servant while in the frenzy of terror caused by the nightmare. Among all my many sins, that was not one of them.
“Yes,” Cesare said, “I know.”
“You do?” I had feared that my possession of the knife would convince him that I was responsible for the man’s death, but apparently it had done exactly the opposite.
“Where did you say you found this?”
“On the slope beyond the arena. The ground there is covered with thornbushes, which I think are the reason why my feet were cut. A narrow path leads through them and around the side of the palazzo toward the piazza. I believe I came that way.”
“I know the place. How did you happen to see the knife?”
“I didn’t, not at first. But I noticed a depression where it looked as though someone might have lain for a time. The knife was there.”
“And you didn’t tell me because you feared that I would think you dropped the knife, having taken it from the man and used it to kill him?”
Reluctantly, I nodded. “We both know that I haven’t been … entirely myself lately.”
He sighed and put an arm around me, drawing me close. More exhausted than I could ever remember being and aching in every bone, I accepted the comfort he offered without hesitation. Stroking my hair, he said mildly, “You don’t do well away from Rome.”
The notion that my distress was caused by a sojourn in the countryside was so absurd that I could not help but laugh. As, of course, Cesare intended.
“Perhaps you found the knife somewhere and carried it to the slope,” he suggested after a moment.
“If I did, I have no memory of doing so.”
“Then perhaps someone else left it there.”
Dimly, I recalled the shadowy figure I had glimpsed. A robed being no less terrifying than Death itself. But surely only a product of my disordered mind?
“In the place where I happened to be? What is the chance of that?”
“I don’t know,” Cesare admitted. Or at least I think he did. No matter how any of us tries to hold off Morpheus, the capricious god always wins in the end.
“I am missing something,” I murmured, but my voice was slurred and I could barely understand my own words. Likely Cesare did not hear me, for I don’t think that he replied. I knew when he laid me down on the bed and covered me, and then I knew nothing at all.
21
Herrera and the other Spaniards left the villa at first light. David went with them, which I hoped meant that he was still in their good graces despite his instinctive move to help me. Comte de Rochanaud departed shortly thereafter, setting off with many expressions of mutual amicability between himself and Borgia. Scarcely had the boat carrying the French emissary disappeared around a bend of the river than His Holiness was off to spend a few hours with La Bella.
The sun was high when we finally departed. During the ride back to Viterbo, I had no opportunity to speak with Il Papa, nor did he address me. While I was certain that he knew full well what I had done, apparently there was no reason for us to discuss it.
I did, however, have ample time to reflect on what had occurred. Borgia’s suggestion that I needed to kill was not without merit. Yet whatever relief I gained from doing so was transitory. Although I did not have any doubts about the moral rightness of defending one’s own life, I was gripped by a hollow sadness that not even Cesare’s understanding could ease. Moreover, I was all too vividly aware that I was, yet again, the target of fearful and condemning stares from even the hard-bitten men-at-arms in His Holiness’s escort. I have observed that there are advantages to having a dark reputation, but riding along the Via Cassia that afternoon, I could not remember any of them.
Coming into Viterbo, it was clear to me that word of events at the villa had already spread, as no doubt Borgia had intended when he sent the Spaniards back so early. With thoughts of peace with the French uppermost in every mind, Il Papa was greeted far more enthusiastically than usual as he entered the town and made his way through the winding streets up to the palazzo. He seemed to enjoy the novel reception, for he waved and offered blessings enthusiastically. As for me, I kept my eyes straight ahead and did my best to ignore the whispers that followed in my wake.
The prelates, having been denied any role in the discussions with France, were out in force when we arrived. To a man, they demanded His Holiness’s attention. He gave it, if grudgingly. Cesare went along, most likely to mediate, although he had scant patience for his fellow prelates and was far more likely to shout them down than to listen to them. Sorry though I was to miss that, I was free to see to my own needs. Or so I thought.
Before I reached my rooms, Renaldo caught up with me. He had gone ahead in the company of the Spaniards, and I assumed he had something to tell me regarding them. But instead he surprised me. “That nun is back. She is asking to see you.”
I swallowed a groan. Of all the people I wanted to deal with just then, Mother Benedette was not among them. I dreaded the thought of facing her, given what she must surely think of me now that she knew what I was capable of doing.
“She’s quite a charming woman,” Renaldo added. “We had a nice chat.”
“Did you?” I could only imagine about what.
He nodded gently. “She knew your mother.”
My head was throbbing. I had slept, but not enough. I needed a proper bath and a chance to collect my thoughts, but apparently I would not get either.
“They were friends together growing up in Milan,” I said.
“So she told me. I put her in my office. I thought she would be more comfortable there.”
Renaldo’s office, whether in Borgia’s old palazzo on the Corso or at the Vatican or in Viterbo, was at once his inner sanctum and the command post from which he maintained his oversight of all aspects of the papal household. I had been allowed to call upon him there from time to time, but visitors were generally not welcome. For him to have made an exception for Mother Benedette suggested that he was impressed with her indeed. Or perhaps he was simply trying to do me a kindness.
“I’ll just have a quick word with her,” I said. “We won’t be long.”
To my surprise, he replied, “Take as much time as you like. I’m having a new counting table built and I want to see ho
w it’s coming along. If the beads aren’t perfectly smooth or properly balanced…” He shuddered at the havoc that could wreak.
I thanked him and withdrew long enough to freshen myself before following in his wake. Renaldo’s office was down a short corridor from the great hall. When the door to it was open, he had a view from his desk of all comings and goings. Although we had been in Viterbo only a few days, the office was heaped with piles of ledgers, rolled parchments, and stacks of paper. I suspected that Renaldo used them as a kind of fortification against the chaotic world.
In their midst, perched on the edge of a chair facing the desk, I found Mother Benedette. The abbess’s eyes were closed and she was fingering the wooden rosary beads she wore at her waist. She appeared lost in prayer.
I hesitated, reluctant to interrupt her; but she seemed to sense my presence, for she opened her eyes, peered at me, and smiled wanly.
“My dear child. I hope you can forgive me for coming like this?”
Considering that I had brutally killed two men scant hours before, I rather thought that I was the one who should be asking for forgiveness, but so be it. Quickly, I took the seat beside her. “Of course. I am glad to see you.”
“It is kind of you to say so. You could hardly be blamed if you never wished to be in my company again.”
Whatever I had expected, it was not that. Surely any offense she imagined that she had committed paled in comparison to mine. “I don’t understand. Why would you think that?”
“Because I was far too hasty and clumsy in telling you of your mother as I did. I am so sorry for the distress I must have caused. I fear it may have led you to—” She broke off, but her expression made it clear what she thought I had done in response to learning how my mother died.
Distress was too mild a word by far for what I was still experiencing as I struggled to come to terms with my mother’s fate and my father’s deception, but I would not for the world tell her that. Instead, I replied, “I acted in self-defense. But beyond that, a truth withheld for so many years can never be revealed with too great haste. You only did what was right.”