by Sara Poole
In Herrera’s quarters, Cesare and David together moved him carefully onto the bed. At once, the black-garbed crows hovering in wait moved toward him. I grimaced at sight of the physicians and grasped Cesare’s arm.
“Don’t let them near him,” I entreated. “They’ll bleed or purge him, or both, and he will most surely die.”
Turning on me, he demanded, “Can you do better? You had a hand in bringing him to such a pass, and we both know it.”
I felt the color drain from my face, but I refused to back down. There would be time for me to answer for my part in what had occurred, possibly all of eternity. But not yet.
“David will help me. At the very least, we will do no worse than the physicians, and we may be able to do some good.”
To send some of the most learned men of the papal court away in order to give preference to a witch and a Jew … few would even have considered doing so. To his everlasting credit, Cesare hesitated only a moment. He stared at Herrera, closed his eyes for an instant, and opened them to shout, “Out! All of you, out!”
Although I would never say it to him, just then he sounded uncannily like his father.
“Except you … and you.” He pointed at David and me.
The others went amid much grumbling and backward glares. The physicians would hie themselves off to the papal secretaries, who would listen to them with sympathy, as they, too, detested me. There would be talk of appealing to Borgia directly, but it would come to nothing. His Holiness would remain apart, taking no hand in what transpired until the results were clear.
As the door shut behind them, I took a long breath and tried to decide where to begin. Herrera had yet to regain consciousness, for which I was deeply grateful, but that might be because he was about to slip into extremis. His injuries were grave, the damage extensive. I had no way of knowing how far the stab wound to his side had penetrated. If a lung had collapsed …
“I need items from my quarters,” I said. Specifically, I needed drugs and other substances locked away in the puzzle chest that only I could open. When I explained as much, Cesare ordered the chest to be brought to Herrera’s apartments, along with everything else I required. While I waited, I did my best to assess the Spaniard’s injuries.
The wounds through the palms of his hands appeared to have almost stopped bleeding, but because of the swelling around them, the nails piercing the centers were tightly embedded. So, too, those in his feet. The wound to his side was jagged and deep, but when I leaned close to it, I saw no bubbling in the blood coming from it.
“All right,” I said as I straightened slowly. Both men were watching me. “The wound on his side is the most immediately serious. It has to be cleaned and stitched. As for the others, we must do what we can to prevent infection and hope that in time he can recover some use of his hands and feet.”
“There is nothing else to be done?” Cesare asked.
Regretfully, I shook my head. “I have no experience setting small bones. Very few do. I can try, but in all honesty, I could make the injuries worse.”
As I spoke, I had a sudden memory of Herrera in the arena, his sword flashing as he moved with skill and grace that would have undone most men, just not Cesare. And I wondered at the architectural designs he drew. Would he ever be able to do either again?
“I can give you the names of several Moorish physicians,” David offered. “One or more of them may have such skill.”
A witch, a Jew, and a Moor … If Herrera did manage to survive, would he hear what God was trying to tell him?
“That is all for later,” I said. “Right now, we will have a job just to keep him alive.”
I was even more convinced of that after I placed my fingers, as I had seen Sofia do, on the inside of his wrist and felt the very faint stirring of his pulse there. Leaning close, I put an ear to his chest to confirm what I suspected. His heartbeat was very weak.
“He has lost a lot of blood.” David and Cesare were both looking at me, waiting for me to say what should be done. I swallowed and went on. “Added to whatever drugs Mother Benedette gave him and the shock of what she did…”
I looked down at the Spaniard, whose face already seemed to bear the gray pallor of death. The conviction stirred in me that if I did not try something drastic, he would not see morning.
Slowly, I said, “I have substances in my possession that can be deadly but which, according to Sofia Montefiore, in smaller quantities can be used to heal.”
“How would you know how much to give him?” Cesare asked. I was heartened that he did not dismiss the idea entirely, although I understood that was a measure of his desperation. But I did not have a good answer for him.
“I have a fair gauge of how much would kill him,” I said. “I propose to start with a much smaller amount and see what happens.”
“If he dies—?” David began, but Cesare cut him off.
“Then he dies because of what the abbess did, not because of anything Francesca did to try to save him.”
My throat tightened. After everything that had happened, Cesare’s willingness to trust me took me by surprise. I hurried over to the puzzle chest and worked the combination to open it. From beneath the false bottom, I removed a box containing poisons that I preferred never to use. Each time I had ended the life of a poisoner sent against Borgia, I had made a point of doing it with the very substance intended to kill His Holiness. While I was likely the only person who knew that was my practice, by doing so I retained the sense of being an instrument of justice rather than merely one of death. But I did not fool myself. At any time, I could be called upon to use a poison of my own crafting.
I was prepared to do that, or so I told myself. Yet my hands shook as I removed a vial from the box and held it up to the light, studying the contents carefully. The crumbled, dried leaves of the plant some call fairy cap and others know as foxglove were, according to Sofia, lifesavers for those with poor hearts. I knew only that they could send that organ into a rapid and erratic rhythm before stopping it entirely.
As I have said—several times, I believe—I am not much good at praying. But I said a prayer then, silently asking the God that, contrary to the Cathars, I truly did believe was good to guide my hand.
The contents of the vial were enough to kill Herrera. But in his weakened state, I suspected that half as much might also be lethal. Accordingly, I measured out only a quantity that fit on the nail of my smallest finger. Having added it to a small amount of hot water, I left the leaves to steep while I prepared to stitch up the wound in the Spaniard’s side. By the time I had the equipment for that ready, I judged the tincture of foxglove to be strong enough.
Cesare lifted Herrera so that the Spaniard’s head rested against his shoulder. I leaned forward and slowly, carefully dribbled the liquid into his mouth. At first I feared that he would spit it out, but such was his condition that he appeared insensible to all that was happening. To my great relief, the dosage slid unimpeded down his throat.
When it was done, I stepped back and allowed myself to breathe. But any relief I might have felt would have to wait. As Cesare lowered Herrera carefully back onto the bed, I put my fingers to his wrist once again. At first, I perceived no difference. But after several moments, his pulse seemed stronger. To be certain, I leaned close again and listened to his heart.
“I think it is working,” I said as I straightened.
A great sigh escaped Cesare. He ran a hand over his face, and I realized that he looked older and wearier than I had ever seen him. But there was no time for any of us to rest.
“I must see to that wound,” I said, gesturing to Herrera’s side. Having managed to strengthen his heart, I feared that he might regain consciousness as I worked, but Fortune, so lately absent, smiled on us. Although he did moan several times, Cesare and David managed to hold him steady while I completed what needed to be done.
Barely had I finished than weakness threatened to overwhelm me. I only just managed to bandage the wound with
clean strips of linen before I sagged where I sat.
We were all of us exhausted, but the night was far from over. Convinced that Herrera at least would not die immediately, Cesare dragged himself off for a much needed conversation with his father. David and I remained at the bedside. From time to time, I got up to check the Spaniard’s pulse and make sure that he was not becoming feverish. It would be days yet before I could be certain there would be no infection, but I was beginning to believe that Herrera had at least a chance of living that long.
Considering how we had found him only a few hours before, that was remarkable. A surge of gratitude went through me for the others who had played a part in saving him: Cesare; David; Erato, who had so unexpectedly helped me; Renaldo; Vittoro; and more. Without them, the outcome would have been far different.
Sitting there in the darkness beside Herrera’s bed, listening to David’s soft snores, I realized that Sofia might be right in trying to persuade me to use my skills for healing, at least some of the time. Despite the darkness within me, I felt a sense of satisfaction and even a kind of happiness unlike any I had ever known before. All that might prove to be no more than a momentary reprieve if the Spaniard took a turn for the worse, but just then I was content to think only of what was, not of what might be.
Cesare came back a short time later. He stood beside the bed for a few minutes, touching his hand to Herrera’s brow and looking at him. When he was satisfied that all was as it should be, he slumped down in the chair beside mine.
With a glance at David, who continued to slumber, he said, “The abbess is being held in her quarters.”
I looked at him in surprise. “Not in a cell?”
He shook his head. “My father does not think it wise for people to be told that the supposedly holy woman they have been making so much of is actually a heretic assassin.”
Borgia, as usual, had a point. Still, I wondered how long the secret could be kept. “What of the men who were at Tanners Lane?”
“They have been told to say nothing, but privately the word is being given that the abbess had a visitation that took her to that place, whereupon she discovered that Herrera had been the victim of a foul attack no doubt perpetrated by our enemies and Spain’s. Thanks to her intervention, he was saved.”
I sat up straighter in the chair and stared at him in disbelief. “Her intervention?”
He sighed deeply. “Tomorrow, there will be a day of prayer during which we are all enjoined to beseech Almighty God to restore His faithful son, Don Miguel de Lopez y Herrera, to full health and strength. Unfortunately, Mother Benedette will not be able to attend. She is in seclusion, withdrawn from this world so that she may pray and fast without distraction.”
I shook my head in disgust but not surprise. Borgia could not risk the truth about the “holy woman” ever becoming known. If people realized that there were surviving Cathars, if they learned anything of their beliefs … The threat that the Church had thought extinguished centuries ago could flare up again and set off a conflagration such as had never been seen before.
“What does he intend to do with her?” I asked.
Cesare shrugged. “First and foremost, he wants to know who sent her and why. After that, if she’s still alive, she will be executed.”
Perhaps I should have felt some twinge of gladness at the thought of her suffering, but none came to me. Instead, I said, “I have never been able to understand why anyone believes that information gained under torture is reliable. Won’t people say anything just to make it stop?”
“So I would think,” Cesare agreed. “But in this matter at least, my father apparently believes that the traditional methods are best.”
I had my doubts that Borgia thought any such thing. To the contrary, the suspicion stirred in me that he was, as usual, several moves ahead of most everyone else. But not, I resolved, of me. Not this time.
Standing, my legs shaking with weariness, I said, “I will be back as quickly as possible. If there is any change with Herrera, send word to me.”
Surprised, for I surely looked too exhausted to be going anywhere, Cesare asked, “What are you doing?”
“What Il Papa wants, of course.” Before I could think better of it, I hurried from the room.
29
“I have urgent business with His Holiness.”
The guard in front of the papal apartments stared at me. He looked like a man torn between his duty and his desire to be anywhere but where he was, face-to-face in the middle of the night with the Pope’s poisoner.
“Urgent business,” I repeated.
He swallowed, managed a nod, and opened the door behind him far enough to alert a secretary. The priest who emerged was young enough to be more arrogant than able. He looked at me and frowned. “His Holiness has retired for the night.”
“No,” I replied with absolute certainty, “he has not.” Whatever Borgia had told his servants, too much had happened for him to have sought his bed. He would be chewing events over, mulling his best moves, as only the finest insomniacs can do.
The priest shrugged. “On you, then,” he said and stood aside for me to enter.
Borgia was fully dressed and seated at his desk. He looked up as I appeared.
“Ah, Francesca. I thought you might pay me a visit. Sit down.” When I had done so, he asked, “How is Herrera?”
“Alive. I have given him a medication to strengthen his heart. So far it seems to be working. The wound to his side bled a great deal, but the lung is intact. I have closed the wound and we will watch for signs of infection. Cesare has sent for a Moorish physician who can deal with the injuries to the hands and feet. All in all, there is reason to be moderately optimistic.”
“I am glad to hear it. What a terrible fate to befall any man. He has you to thank for saving him.”
“Really? I thought the credit went to the holy Mother Benedette?”
Borgia leaned back in his chair and regarded me narrowly. “It’s not like you to be petty, Francesca. What is it that you want?”
I did not hesitate but met him straight on, as I had made up my mind to do. “I know that you plan to put her to the question. I ask that you let me speak with her first.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Need I point out how thoroughly she duped you?”
I winced but did not attempt to deny it. “No one knows that better than I. All I ask is a chance to redeem myself.”
He considered for a moment, then spread his hands, as though granting a favor out of the pure magnanimity of his soul. “All right, but don’t take too long with her. I have told the torturers to be ready at dawn.”
“Do they know they will be dealing with a Cathar?”
He looked puzzled by the question. “It wouldn’t make any difference if they did. Their job is to get information. They aren’t required to understand it. In fact, the sooner they forget everything they hear, the better.” His gaze sharpened. “Some would consider that a virtue worth acquiring.”
“Whereas others believe that knowledge is the ultimate power,” I countered. Borgia certainly did, judging by the pains he went to in order to acquire it.
“An excellent reason why it must be kept beyond the reach of those who would misunderstand or misuse it,” he said. “Now if there is nothing else—” He flicked a hand in dismissal.
I ignored that and asked, “Did you know that the Cathars still existed?”
He hesitated long enough for me to conclude that he did not intend to answer. Finally, he said, “There have always been rumors that a remnant survived.”
I thought of the secret texts preserved so carefully in the Mysterium Mundi. Against the day when a formidable enemy might rise to challenge Rome again?
“Rumors or fears?” I asked.
Christ’s Vicar glared at me. “The Church does not fear, Francesca. The Church instills fear when that is necessary, in order to assure that our sheep do not stray from the one, true path into the mouths of wolves. That is why the Cathars were cr
ushed and why they will never return.”
I drew myself up, facing him directly. “With all respect, Your Holiness, we both know that they already have returned. There is no reason to believe that the ‘abbess’ acted alone. Who trained her to be so skilled an assassin? Who provided her with poisons and drugs more sophisticated than any I have ever encountered? If your known enemies had such capabilities, you would be long dead.”
He scowled at me. “A thought that trips easily from your lips.”
I brushed that aside and went on. “Yet you knew nothing of the Cathars?”
Grudgingly, he said, “Rumors … nothing more. And no reason to believe that there was any truth to them.”
“Do any of those rumors mention Milan?”
He looked at me closely. “Not that I know of. Some remaining Cathars are said to live in England, others in France, still others in hidden places, dwelling in forests and caves. But it is all just whispers on the wind. Or at least it was.”
I swallowed my disappointment and nodded. “When we return to Rome, I will scour the Mysterium Mundi for every scrap of information about the Cathars. We must be prepared to deal with them again.”
I rose to go, but he forestalled me. Reaching into a drawer of his desk, he withdrew a small wooden box and held it out to me.
“This was taken from your abbess’s quarters before I ordered her secured there. In light of what you have just said, I have every confidence that you will find it of interest.”
Carefully, I opened the box, revealing a dozen glass vials, all closed but several with broken seals indicating that some of their contents had been used. Among them would be the poison capable of stopping hearts between one beat and the next. Others would contain the drugs the abbess had used on me and possibly the Cathar elixir. Borgia was making a gesture of faith in entrusting them to me, but he would also expect me to investigate them thoroughly.
Girding myself for what that would involve, I inclined my head. “I will let you know what I learn.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and dismissed me with a wave. I secured the wooden box in my rooms before crossing to the apartment where Mother Benedette was being held. Two men-at-arms stood out in front, ostensibly to protect her from being disturbed at her prayers. I had no doubt that there were others below, in case she took it into her head to go out a window, as I had briefly considered doing.