Servant to the Borgia

by Elizabeth McGlone

  Hastily, clumsily, she stood, feeling the wooden blade in her hand, the throb in her cheek, and above all, the blood coating her hands. Dead. Juan Borgia, the Duke of Gandia, was dead.

  Her throat swelled with the urge to laugh. She had killed him. She, Betta, the cobbler's daughter with no more dowry to her name than the two copper pennies hanging from the pouch at her neck. The Duke of Gandia was dead because of her.

  She looked down at them, her fingertips stained red with blood. Small hands, calloused and short of nail, rough from the years spent submerged in strong soap. The feel of the knife in them... it had been a pleasure. The thickness of the leather, the cold steel, the hot waterfall of blood sliding over her skin. Like silk, like velvet, a lover’s touch, so warm and gentle…

  No. Betta took a step back, forcing herself to think of what happened, of what she must do now, rather than on what she had just done. Danger. She was in danger. At any moment, the man in the mask could return, and see what had occurred. If that happened, she was dead. Cold sweat misted her face as she realized the extent of her trouble.

  She had not killed an attacker, not slit the throat of a nameless vagabond intent on her purse. She had killed the Duke of Gandia, the beloved son of the most powerful man in the world. She…she was dead. If anyone discovered this night’s work, she would be executed, and her sister with her; nothing would save the lives of anyone connected to this death. She needed to run.

  The door was two paces in front of her when Betta felt the stickiness of the gown brushing against her fingers. Looking down in the faint light of the brazier, she could see a patch of darkness on her chest. She could not leave like this. A cloak. She needed something to conceal herself in. Betta searched the room, finding a small chest. Throwing it open, Betta rummaged through the contents until she found a half cloak scented with some exotic perfume, like spices, and lined with soft fur. It enfolded her in the darkness of a warm embrace, and she stole from the apartment.

  Fear lent wings to her steps. She glided down the stairs attached to the outside of the house, silent except for the creaking of wood as the old building settled. Once on the street, she looked around, immediately recognizing the place: Regola, just over the river, the port of the city inhabited by fishermen and merchants. The houses were tall and narrow, two and three and four stories, slanting up and up until the tops met near the sky.

  Draping the edge of the cloak over her head, she began to hurry, toward the river, the place where two lives had ended. A stone caught her toe; she stumbled, muttering under her breath as her knees crashed to the street, bruising them. The bridge was ahead, the Ponte Sisto, leading to Trastevere. Her home. Some greater power must have been guiding her steps, leading her to the place she needed to be. There was one murder left for tonight, and she would accomplish it. Even if they caught her, her stepfather would be stopped, and her sister would be happy. Would Lady Lucrezia honor her promise to see her sister wed if Betta were known to be the one that murdered her brother, unloved though he was? Perhaps not, so she would hurry, hiding in the city until she could sneak back into the convent. A half-truth would suffice to explain her absence from the convent: she had caught Pantasilea in the act of riffling through the letters, and then chased her through the city and could not return until the next day. It must suffice. It had to suffice, or else all was lost.

  Betta crossed the bridge. More people milled about in Trastevere despite the lateness of the hour. Light and music spilled out from the windows of a wine shop, and the sound of laughter hung in the air. Lantern-lit green eyes watched her from the alleyways, whores and feral animals prowling through the streets. Ahead, in the distance, she could see the church, rising overhead. The bones of a saint were there. She would stop and ask forgiveness if she still believed. But there was no heaven, no hell either. The ease with which she had cut Juan Borgia from his body was proof enough of that. They were like pigs, waiting to be slaughtered. There was nothing to believe in except…

  The clink of armor. Heart pounding, Betta hid in a doorway until the city watch had passed and she could join in a crowd of revelers stumbling drunkenly towards the heart of the district. Every laugh, every cat’s shriek and muted shuffling wound her body tighter until her shoulders ached with the tension. Pain thundered behind her eyes and at her temples; breath stuttered in her chest, pounding like a galloping horse.

  At last, she was able to separate from the crowd. As the leatherworker’s square came into view, the night quieted, tradesmen having found their beds long before. The familiar smell of the place was a caress, well-tanned leather and oil, the lingering traces of urine unlyingthe scent of cloves. The scent of her childhood, it calmed her racing thoughts.

  The sound of a man’s boots striking the stones cut through the night. Without looking up, Betta drew the edge of the cloak close around her throat. Beneath it, the knife was clutched in her hand. Foolish, with red still staining the blade. Betta tucked her chin close to her chest and increased the speed of her walk. The man paused, finally seeing her, and an appreciative growl emerged from his throat. Betta kept her head down, refusing to meet his eyes. She turned, the last corner before the bodega would come into view, but the man seemed intent on crossing her path.

  “Pretty maid,” came the drunken voice; Betta looked up to see a hand stretched out toward her. “Wine?” he asked, swished a jug at her. The fumes rolled off him in waves, sickening and familiar.

  “No,” she said, meaning to hurry off, but his hands grabbed for her. She scurried away, avoiding his touch.

  “Here now, a drink only...” She could see his teeth in the light, gray from the reflected light of the moon. Dawn was coming. Lightness was rising in the air like mist from the river. Cold was a bright snap in the air, prickling the gooseflesh of her arms. In the distance, a dog howled, the sound echoed by another animal, far across the hills of the city.

  “No,” she whispered, louder now, meaning to run off before they could attract any more attention, before someone could ask why a well-dressed servant doused in blood was stumbling through the streets of Rome clutching a knife.

  “Proud little piece, aren’t you?” Anger replaced the entreaty; Betta flinched and shrank back, wanting to run, to hide before the violence soaking this night could find her again.

  “Let her be,” came a new voice, a familiar voice, and Betta felt the urge to weep, to cry out in relief that somehow, it was Micheletto in Trastevere when she needed him. The thought niggled at her mind, lingering there. Micheletto was in Trastevere.

  “Wha…” the word cut off at the flash of silver. With an annoyed grunt and a shrug of his shoulders, the man backed away a step, continuing on toward the bridge.

  In three steps, Micheletto was at her side, seizing her arm. “What are you doin’ here?” It was a cold, grave dust voice; Betta shivered with fear and clutched the cloak tighter at her throat.

  “I...I..” she could not speak the words. Micheletto served the Borgia. If he knew what she had done, he would tell his master, and she would die. Her sister too, she would die, tied to the stake next to her. Would the flames hurt, as they ate away at her flesh? Would…

  “Stop!” he hissed, reaching out with his hand to grab her shoulder. The folds of the cloak parted, revealing the knife, clutched in bloodless fingers; the blade touched his skin, wet with blood, and he shied back. His eyes sharpened as he parted the halves of the cloak, revealing the spreading stain over her middle.

  A calmness settled over her mind. There was nothing left. He would tell his master, and she would be condemned.

  Micheletto’s head cocked to the side. “Show me,” he commanded.

  “He tried to…” she began, only to feel his cold finger against her lips.

  “Not here, where any could hear. Show me.”

  In a daze, Betta retraced her steps, out of Trastevere, over the bridge, through to the houses that lined the harbor. Though he paused for a moment when she stopped in front of the long narrow house, he followed
her up the stairs, pushing the door open to reveal the room exactly as she had left it: the rumpled chest, the smoking brazier, and the cooling body of the Duke of Gandia.

  Micheletto stood still for a moment, his eyes betraying nothing. When she was breathless from the waiting, expecting him to denounce her at any moment as a murderess, a foul witch, he began to laugh, small chuckles at first, then louder, until his whole body shook with it. The sound was deep and rough, as though he did not laugh often.

  “You?” he laughed.

  Betta said nothing, reasoning that only spoken words could betray her.

  “The greatest jest in the world, and none I can speak of it to.” He shook his head, still chuckling. Bending down, he threw another piece of wood onto the fire, stoking the flames. “There is little time. Bring me the linens from the bed. We shall wrap his Grace in preparation for his journey.”

  She hurried toward the bed and began stripping the linens off. “His journey where?”

  Micheletto took the bundle from her arms and spread them wide with a snap of his arms. The fabric fluttered over the body, concealing the staring eyes.

  “To the river. Here, turn toward the light. Hmm, too much blood. Strip the gown. There are hose and doublet in the chest that will suffice.”

  “Men’s garments?” she said, the words emerging high and squeaky. Micheletto looked up from the act of rolling the Duke like a sausage in the protective covering to glower in her direction. A puddle of fluid stained the floor. Betta took a linen shirt from the chest and began sopping it up.

  “You killed a man, yet you balk at wearing hose?”

  Seeing that his argument was valid, Betta began pulling at the laces holding her bodice together.

  The squeaking of a floorboard outside the door halted them in place. Micheletto reached into his doublet and jerked his chin in her direction; Betta scuttled back, concealing herself behind a post and shaking her hair, letting the long, damp strands cover her face. There was no fear any longer, only a hollow emptiness where it should have been.

  The door crept open. The shape of a man was framed in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the steadily lightening sky- a slim build, long hair, and a mask concealing his features. The hand holding the doorframe contracted, forming a fist as he looked inside.

  Micheletto stood, his bulk concealing her from view. Rather than running, the man at the door took a step into the room and swept the mask over his head, revealing a face haggard with exhaustion. The mask fell to the floor with a clatter.

  “Micheletto.” The voice was soft, surprised. His eyes swept the room, lingering on the linen-wrapped body. Briefly, his eyes touched the beam where she was concealed. Though he said nothing and Betta made no noise, she felt sure he knew she was there. “The Duke?”

  The muscles in Micheletto’s shoulder clenched. He nodded his head. The hands clenched at his thighs shifted; Betta recognized the motion, making ready for a strike.

  “Bien. As I hoped.”

  The buzzing of insects and the breeze rattling the shutters was the only noise in the room. A brief memory of the past hours surfaced from the fog: the tying of her wrists with a leather thong and carrying her to the horse slung over a shoulder. A hand steadying her, bracing against the sheath at her thigh. The bindings at her wrist had been loose enough that she had been able to escape and her blade had not been taken. Not luck, then, as she had thought. The man in the mask had saved her.

  “It was all a plan, then, all that happened between us. Your master sent you to me.” The lines of his throat moved in a swallow. “Did you care at all?”

  Micheletto’s voice was a rasp in the darkness. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

  A faint look, bitter and sad, briefly moved across the man’s face. His eyes touched the pillar where she stood. “Best hurry then, the light will soon be upon us. Au revoir, mon ami.”

  “Mon cher.”

  The smile returned to the man’s face, lighting it briefly. With a last, lingering look, the man melted back, disappearing through the doorway. The tense lines of Micheletto’s shoulders eased, and a breath moved through his chest. He bent down and began tying the last of the linen around the body.

  Betta stepped out from behind the pillar and looked to the door. A lingering odor of regret hung in the room, stronger than blood and violence.

  “Were you lovers?” She selected hose from the chest and began pulling them over her legs.

  “What?” The question was a shocked whisper. Long hair hanging down concealed his face.

  “Bernaldino told me. He said that you did not take after women, that you preferred,” she pulled on the hose and laced up the codpiece. There was far too much fabric in the center, and she was forced to gather the excess in her hands, “pretty boys and painted creatures.”

  Micheletto’s movements became savage. All at once, he stood and crossed the room, his tall form towering over her. She wanted to shrink back, to hide from the anger that was pulsing from him. His hands reached for the belt at his waist. With a jerk, he freed it from his body; Betta held her breath, wanting to run even though she could not. Never again.

  Instead of striking her with the belt, he looped it over her head and cinched it hard at the waist, holding the fabric of the hose tight against her body. He was looking down, at the gap in her camicia showing between the unlaced halves of the doublet, her breasts round against the fabric.

  “Lace it,” he growled. “And bind your hair.”

  “What will we do?” she asked, needing to know the answer.

  “Throw the bastard in the river before they burn you. Hurry! The morning comes.”

  Betta fastened the doublet. There was nothing in the room to bind her hair, no cap or spare piece of fabric. Only her gown, still in a pile on the floor. Taking the knife still lying on the ground next to the body, she cut a long strip of fabric from the bottom of the skirt. Bending at the waist, she wrapped her hair and bound it to the base of her skull in a movement that had become as familiar as breathing during the last years.

  She straightened, looking at him, waiting for his command. The men’s garments felt strange on her body, the fabric between her legs uncomfortable, chaffing the skin of her inner thighs. And her breasts felt too loose beneath the doublet with nothing to bind them to her chest.

  Micheletto made no move to follow. As he watched her, hunger rose in his face, tightening the features.

  “You want me now?” she asked. “Is it because I am dressed like this?”

  “I’d have fucked you from the beginning.” His hand reached toward her, then he stopped and shook his head. “Later.” He said, and it was a promise.

  Micheletto carried the body down the stairs to the stable in the yard behind the house. The small white mare they found watched with sleepy eyes as they unfastened the gate. There was no need for a saddle, and no time either. The horse shied nervously when it’s sensitive nostrils found the smell of the body, blood seeping through, and would have balked, throwing the burden from its back, but Micheletto spoke soothingly to it until it allowed him to lead it from the yard into the street beyond.

  They ran through the streets, leading the horse through the back pathways until they came to the river; the sky was already lightening, blushes of pink and rose painting their vibrant colors across the gray clouds. At every moment, she expected to hear a cry, the clash of arms as they were discovered, the shine of an eye in the dark, watching them. When they reached the river, they turned, clinging to the wooded path along the banks. She waited for them to stop when they were beyond the place where they could easily be seen; Micheletto continued on, however, pulling and then whipping the horse when it balked at the speed. Betta was puffing and red-faced when they stopped. Far away in the distance, Betta thought she could see the shadow of a church steeple rising high into the sky.

  “Here,” Micheletto muttered, chest heaving. They worked together to remove the corpse from the horse; the animal whinnied in relief, and Betta saw
the stir of movement from across the river, a head turning in their direction.

  Betta touched his arm and pointed; she was not so foolish as to use his name.

  “I know. There is no time.” They untied the leather ropes and the linen that covered the body fell away. Seen in the light, the Duke’s face was terrible, the mouth gaping, showing his broken teeth. His eyes were staring, becoming opaque.

  “Your gown, the cloth. Take it far out and sink it in the river.” As he spoke, he began to gather stones on the shore, large ones.

  The cold of the water slapped against her bare feet. Slimy mud squished between her toes as she waded out into the water until it reached the place between the doublet and hose. She released her grip on the fabric bundle, and it floated away, blooming on top of the water like an exotic flower. There was another sound of splashing; Betta turned to see that Micheletto had joined her in the water, the body in his arms.

  “Rocks,” he said, struggling the weight. Hurrying back to the shore, she piled as many rocks into her arms as she was able, ragged edges digging into her sleeves. Her foot caught on a stone as she hurried back, and she had a moment of terror as she felt something like a hand brush her foot. It could be a hand. Bodies were dumped into the Tiber every night, as she was doing, as she had killed…

  “Hurry,” he hissed, and Betta saw the streaks of pink beginning in the sky. It broke her from the whirlpool of thoughts trying to draw her under; she pushed forward until she was at his side. Working together, they piled rocks onto the chest until it sank beneath the water, and Micheletto released it to slide toward the mud. As soon as the body settled, however, it began to rise. She stayed this time, holding the body of the Duke of Gandia in the mud with her foot until he returned, his arms filled with rocks that would keep him in place.

  Chapter 69

  “Come in, come in,” the Holy Father beckoned from the splendor of his bed, inlaid wood overlaid with gold and scarlet hangings. Braces of candles were lit throughout the room, lighting it to the brightness of midday though dawn had only begun to creep through the shutters. A page waited on a stool beside the hood of the fireplace, ready should the Holy Father need him.