“You’ve not the guts to do it.”
Betta shifted her hold on the knife, aiming it forward. She knew the place to strike; Bernaldino had shown her a spot in the center of his body that would kill slowly, days of agony paying him in kind for the horror that had been her life.
Betta smiled. The time for words had passed. She would cut him and cut him and cut him until even the memory of his touch was a dead thing, buried beneath a sea of scarlet.
A soft hand touched her arm. “No.”
Betta could not look at her sister, she could not see the pleading that was in her voice. Blood was roaring through her, hungry for the taste. “He hurt you.”
“Don’t kill him. Please. He is my father. Please. I’ve never asked anything of you. Please.”
Tears. They were falling on her arm, still poised for the strike. And hair, the softness of red curls, cascading over her fingers. Ginevra had draped herself over Betta’s hand, trying to shield her father.
A step back, and then another. Ginevra was drawing her towards the stairs; Betta could not take her eye’s from Ruberto’s face. If he took a step forward, she would force her sister away and strike. If he threatened them, no force could make her stop; only her sister’s plea had saved his life. The edge of the steps formed a darkened recess in the floor. Ginevra halted, unable to force her down without risking injury.
“Please.”
Ruberto had begun to pull the edges of his hose together one-handed, still clutching the knife. There was still time. Half a moment to fly across the room, her feet like wings, and then the parting of skin beneath her blade. She had dreamed of it, wanted it for years, the thought of that sweet day all that had kept her from madness.
But Ginevra was crying.
“Soon,” she said. Turning, she followed her sister down the stairs.
After taking a moment to slide the knives back in their sheaths, Betta grasped her sister’s hand. Together, they ran from Trastevere, a wild, headlong flight through the city, pushing past horses and carts, around the faded stone monuments of Empire, dodging merchant’s stalls and children playing in the street as they headed north, following the path of the river. Regret hung like a stone in her chest, the weight increasing with every step. This had been her fault. She had known the kind of man he was, and she had deceived herself, thinking fear or some last lingering hint of decency would keep him from reaching out and taking what he wanted. Her mother would never forgive her for allowing this to happen.
The excuses were ashes in her mouth. She had been occupied by other matters; the dissolution of her mistress’s marriage, the part she had played in the scheming of the Borgia siblings against one another; she had put the danger facing her sister to the back of her mind.
It was her fault. She had failed.
They slowed as they neared Ponte, crowds of soldiers and merchants clogging the road. Betta pulled her sister into an alley. Panting, trying to catch her breath, Betta turned and faced her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” This had not been the first time. The dead look in her sister’s eyes contained a list of her stepfather’s crimes.
Ginevra wiped her running nose on her sleeve. “He hasn’t…he’s not…
“He’s not fucked you, that’s what you are trying to say?” Her words were sharp, and Ginevra recoiled. Betta took her shoulders and pressed her back against the wall. “He’s not pushed himself between your legs and held your mouth while you screamed? How long until he does, you little fool? He will never stop. Never! You should have let me kill him. He deserves to die!”
“Don’t hurt him.”
Ginevra’s whispered plea enraged her.
“Why do you protect him?” She grabbed Ginevra’s arms and began shaking her, raging, wanting, needing to strike her sister, who had allowed herself to be used, and him, that bastard. He would not survive the night. She would kill him for doing this after she had found a place to hide Ginevra. His blood would be spilled today, she swore. His life belonged to her.
Ginevra yanked herself away. “Him?” she cried, skin splotchy and red around her eyes, the contrast making the color appear very blue. “I am not protecting him, you fool, I’m protecting you! They know, Betta! All of them. I’ve heard them talking about it. Paulo’s mother did not wish us to wed because my father had made a whore of his own daughter? She only agreed because of the dowry you promised. I heard them talking about it with my own ears! If he dies, they will hang you!”
“Who will hang me? Do you think the city guard cares for wine drunk fools like him?”
“Others might,” Ginevra spat. “Men have begun to come to the bodega at night. I hear them whispering through the walls. They are Orsini, I’ve heard the names. He tells them about you, that you work for the Borgia and when you come here. And now he has gold for wine, and he says that he is not afraid any longer, because he has friends that will protect him.”
Another betrayal, one that she should have expected long since. Ruberto had found a way to profit from her connection with the Borgia, even though she had always been careful to keep the nature of her service a secret. But even a scullery maid such as they thought she was could be threatened into poisoning a cup or a dish if her sister was in danger.
He had to be stopped. A plan formed in Betta’s mind with perfect clarity, steps leading from the dark alley across the river to a place of safety, a way to protect her sister and see her safely married.
She let go of Ginevra’s shoulders and brushed away the tears. “I am sorry.” Ginevra hiccupped and tried to smile although her shoulders were still trembling. She was so young, only three and ten. Had Betta ever been that young? She thought not. “Come, I will take you to meet a friend. She will take care of you.”
“What friend? And Father said that if I ran, he would send the city guard after you.”
Betta allowed herself a chuckle as she pulled Ginevra along, away from the path to the Convent. “I serve his Holiness’s beloved daughter. How can he harm me?”
Another lie, though a small one meant to comfort her sister. Her stepfather had harmed her for years, and she had allowed it. No longer. She would see justice done, no matter the consequences, and her sister would be safe.
Up, through the streets of Rome again, walking until her feet were a tapestry of blisters. At her side, Ginevra hobbled. There had been no time for her to put on shoes, and each step of her foot left a damp mark. It was the same journey she had made a thousand times by herself, and once with her mother. The smooth façade of the kitchen gate familiar to her, as was the page who answered her urgent knocking.
“What?” he began, voice losing its exhausted rasp when he saw her face. His face was framed by a halo of brown and gray tousled curls. The cooks and pages woke early in the dei Cattanei household, finding their sleep in snatches and starts throughout the day when the mistress rested. “Betta?”
She nodded, pushing past him. “Where is Donna Maria? I must speak to her.”
Confusion clouded the elderly page’s face. “Her’s ill. Nearly gone, I think. Been expecting it for weeks.”
Though the kitchen was hot from the banked cooking fires, Betta felt the cold seep through her.
“What? When?” The housekeeper could not be near death. Despite her stoutness, Donna Maria was an immovable figure, like the church of St. Peter’s, which had stood for a thousand years.
“Since the French came. One of ‘em took her eye. She’s on the mend for a time, but then, she starts fading. Can’t remember the day, thinks she’s a girl again. The mistress has let her keep her own room, and a kindness it is. Sent a physician to see to her, even. Didn’t think she had it in her.”
There was no room in her thoughts for shame, but she felt the stinging edges of it. Her friend, one of her family, had been sinking towards darkness for almost a year and Betta had not known of it, had not found time in all of those months to visit her. What phrase had Donna Maria used, all those years ago? The pitfalls of service, when the liv
es of those you serve become more important than those who had been family. Maria had been right. The lesson was one she had learned twice this day.
“Who does her duties now?”
“Clarita watches over the house.”
Relief flooded her. “Summon her.” When the page looked in askance at the cook, who had listened to their conversation silently, Betta stepped forward and raised her voice. “Now!” The tone of command was one that she had heard a thousand times, allowing no opposition. As expected, the page stepped back and nodded.
“Aye, Madonna.” He said, disappearing through the door.
Moments later, Clarita returned, and it was a relief to see that she, at least, was unchanged, a plump, gray-haired woman with a kindly face. She recognized Betta immediately.
“Betta? Why are you here, and in such a state!” she paused, looking behind her to Ginevra, who was staring at her feet, muddy, bloody things peeking out from beneath her patched skirts. “And who is this? A fine way to visit, this is, and your cousin in the next room, near breathing her last. Is something amiss with our Princessa? We’d heard that she went to that convent when her fool husband flew the coop…”
Betta threw up her hands, stopping the flow of words. “No, it’s nothing to do with my lady…” Betta searched her mind for words, but images were crowding in, filling her thoughts- her stepfather, the betrayal he was dealing, Borgia, the convent…It was too much. Gray swam at the edge of her vision; she realized how long it had been since she had anything to eat or drink. Pain cramped her stomach; she almost slumped to the floor, the tears flowing down her cheeks. “Please, my friend, hide her.” She reached back, seeking and then finding her sister’s hand. “She is my sister. Please, only a few days, and then I will find another place for her. Please, I beg you.”
Clarita straightened, fishing into the folds of her apron, she found a square of linen, which she passed to Betta. “Your sister, eh? Hmm, yes, we can keep her about, though she looks like she could do with a good scrubbing. Likes a clean house, my mistress does, won’t want no filth around. I shall have to find you some shoes to wear as well…’
Betta lifted her skirts, preparing to take her shoes off when Clarita shushed her.
“Oh, stop now, I find something for her to wear, and I’ll not be sending you back to the Countess with no shoes on your feet. It’s all for the best. My mistress will be pleased to have another girl around. Some of them have run off in the last months and never returned. Come, my dear,” she said, gesturing to Ginevra. “I’ll set you to washing, and then we’ll find a bit of bread for you to eat. My, you are a pretty one, beneath all of that mud. The men will be buzzing about you like flies after a honey pot, not that you’ll have much time to enjoy it. We’re to journey to my lady’s vineyard on the morrow, and a fine place that is, with cool breezes even in this heat. She’s a mind to have her sons to a feast there, though it will do no good, to my mind. Those two have been like dogs fighting over a bone for the longest time.”
Betta straightened her back, tears drying as she listened to the maid’s chatter. Ginevra was visibly brightening under the woman’s maternal influence. She nodded her thanks to Clarita and prepared to leave. Someday, she would find a way to repay this kindness.
“Best you go and see Maria before you leave,” Clarita called after her. “You’ll not have another chance.”
Betta pushed aside the canvas flap separating the housekeeper’s chamber from the passage. A single candle had been left burning; the flame danced in the rush of wind.
On the bed, Maria turned toward the candle, its light throwing flickering lights over her face; a linen bandage covered the right eye, the center stained with dark fluid. A scent filled the room, the sweet rot of decay.
A sob escaped. It was true, then; the old woman was dying, shriveling into nothingness, her former bulk melted away. White hair formed a matted tangle on the blankets, and bright red spots of fever were painted on her cheeks.
Betta knelt at the side of the bed and reached for the old woman’s hand. The joints were twisted and large, the skin as rough as stone. Though the day was warm, there was a small brazier burning in the center of the room, heating it to a blaze. Even so, Maria’s hand was cold, the beds of her nails a dusky blue.
The housekeeper followed her with a single cloudy eye, blinking, trying to clear the film. Lips parting, she moistened them with the edge of her tongue. “Constanza?” she whispered, the words faint. “Wine…I thirst.”
Betta reached behind her, finding the wine jug where it had always been, and pouring a little into the earthenware cup. Placing a hand beneath Maria’s head, she lifted; Betta was shocked at the slight weight as she guided the cup forward for a drink.
Though she coughed, the drink seemed to revive her. The fog cleared from her eye, and the side of her mouth lifted in a smile. A hand twitched on the blanket as though she meant to touch Betta’s cheek. “Pretty Constantza,” she murmured. “All the boys following about.”
Betta blinked back her tears. “It’s not Constanza, Donna. It is Betta. Do you remember?”
Brow furrowing, Maria closed her eyes. “Betta? Little girl… Good worker, but too silent. Sad.” Her hands began plucking the blanket, and Maria closed her unblemished eye. “Should have…should have…”
“Should have what?” Betta took the other woman’s hand, feeling the tremble, the coldness.
“Should have stopped him. I smell it, when she comes back on Sabbath. Blood and seed and his stink on her. Poor little thing. Cries at night.”
Betta squeezed the housekeeper’s hand. “The fault is not yours.”
“It is!” Donna Maria wheezed out the words. “For you and for her. That man you married. A pig, I saw it from the first, but I was too proud…though I’d little reason for it. My family had stopped talking to you. That churchman you took up with, I called you whore then, to your face, but was I any better? Bedding Paulo Bracchis behind his wife’s back. Years it went on. And my baby, my sweet little boy, dead and cold in his cradle…”
Another wound, this one deeper. She had wondered at her mother’s estrangement from her family; finally, she had an answer. Her stepfather had been right, though it mattered little now. And Maria. The pitfalls of service had haunted the housekeeper also, unto the edge of the grave.
“Do not trouble yourself, Maria. You are ill.”
“But your girl. Who will save her?” Maria’s head tossed back and forth on the bolster, hectic red burning beneath the linen bandage, which loosed with her frantic movements, allowing a glimpse of decaying horror, the blackened flesh where an eye had been removed.
Betta searched for the words to console a dying woman. She had no faith, no belief in God; those things were for churchmen who painted pretty pictures of heavens and angels to the dying. She had only herself, the small sum of knowledge that her years had given her.
“Perhaps she needs to save herself. You taught her well, Maria, though she never thanked you. You taught her to work hard to get what she wanted. You taught her loyalty and the honor of service. If she were here…” Betta had thought that all the tears were shed for that day; instead, there were more, an endless well of sadness. “If Betta were here, she would thank you, and tell you that she loves you.”
The ghost of a smile passed over Maria’s face. “That’s well, then. As a daughter, that one has been to me.”
It was time for her to leave, past time if she was to accomplish all that was needed to see her sister safe. But she found that she could not depart yet. Another drink of the wine, a hand smoothing the tangled hair back from her forehead, Maria’s eyelid drooping as slumber approached, and the blanket, tucked in so that the air would not touch her skin, the blue tips of her fingers matching that of her lips.
“Goodbye,” she whispered, pressing a last kiss on her forehead. After a final long look, she walked to the door.
“Constanza?”
Pausing, Betta turned to look at the woman who had been both frie
nd and Mother, knowing it was the last time. “Yes?”
“Those times by the river…laughing when we were girls…feeling my son inside of me…it was so beautiful...All…so beautiful. Tell her it was beautiful.”
Gradually fading, Maria’s voice choked on the last word, and she lapsed into silence. A moment later, she closed her eyes. It was not the final sleep; Betta could see the slight rise and fall of her chest. The end would come soon, however. Death hung in the room, waiting.
“I will tell her.”
Betta walked through the door.
Chapter 54
“What do you mean, we can’t find her?” The jug of wine flew from Juan’s hand and exploded against the opposite wall, inches away from the page’s head.
From his place on the carpet, Perrolto shivered, hunching his shoulders, trying to lessen his bulk. This was not the first time that his master had thrown things at him. If God was good, he could deliver his news and escape before the Duke of Gandia remembered the knives on the table and began hurling them as well.
“She’s gone, your Grace. No sign of her. The…ah gowns and …ah chains your grace had for her, they are all still there. But the girl is gone.”
Juan massaged his forehead with a hand, trying to think. “Her attendants. What have they to say?”
Perrolto shrugged. He had expected the question. “None of them speak the heathen tongue, my lord. The girl, she had a few words of Roman, not enough to speak with them as you or I would. That flock of crows…” Perrolto ducked as another taza exploded inches from his head. “Her ladies said as how it had gone as you expected. His Holiness could not keep his hands from her, all those months. Sending for her every night, and on those days he could not come here, I’d see her to the passage that brought her to his apartments. She starts rounding, just as you expected, and I think it’s all to work out as you wished, my lord. Only, when I wait at the Palazzo to bring her back to your apartments, I am taken by two of the guards! They march me through the halls to the top of the Castel, and I think as how they mean to throw me off when one of them starts to laughing and saying how they might as well let me go, one is hard to tell from all of the others. Well, I know how to shift for myself, so I run from there as fast as my legs can carry me back to your palazzo, my lord. By the time I think to send someone to fetch your little Arab girl back…Pardon my lord, His Holiness’s concubine…Please, my lord, not the knife!”
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