The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  Kindle EditionCopyright © 2012 by Mirella Patzer

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  Cover design © by Mirella Patzer

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or location is entirely coincidental. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used factiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Kindle Edition September 2012

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  ISBN – 978-0-9868439-5-2 - Trade Paperback

  ISBN – 978-0-9868439-6-9 - Electronic Book

  Vengeance

  Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand.

  Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.

  Shakespeare

  Dedication

  To Richard Patzer

  A good-hearted, generous man

  Our Husband, Father, and Grandfather

  Sanctuary of the Madonna of Monte Berico

  Prologue

  A.D. 1645

  I know what it is like to be dead, because I was once dead to the world. Dead to everyone who I believed loved me. Dead to everyone who knew me well enough to call me by name. Dead and buried.

  My friends and family in Vicenza believed the plague that ravaged the city had struck me down; and that my body lay buried and decaying in my ancestral crypt. They were wrong, of course, for I was very much alive. The only certain way to know someone is dead is through cremation or decapitation. Thankfully, that did not happen in my case.

  The warm blood of a woman of thirty-two years courses through my veins. My eyes are ardent and clear, my body still curvaceous and firm, my face and hands are soft and pink, and my spine upright and dignified. My hair is the only thing that has changed. Before I died, it was the color of roasted chestnuts. Afterwards, it turned as white as the snow blanketing the Alps, though my curls remain as thick as ever.

  Once, several years ago, I confessed my story to a compassionate priest. He listened to me without interruption, but I sensed his unmistakable scepticism. When I finished speaking, he hinted that I might be mad, and with a pitiful gaze, he gave me a menial penance. I never told my story to another soul again.

  Several years have passed, but the need to tell my tale has not left me, so I have decided to take pen to parchment. Now that enough time has passed and I can no longer be prosecuted for my crime, I can write the truth without fear. Here in the Sanctuary of the Madonna of Monte Berico, a person’s past is irrelevant, a matter between them and God. Here I can dip the plume in my own blood if I choose, and no one will oppose me.

  These days, the silence of a cloister surrounds me; an imposing, dignified tranquility within a haven of perfect calm. The sole thing to disturb the silence is the gliding of leather soles upon stone floors and the tolling of bells that announce the Canonical hours.

  The sanctuary sits high upon a hill overlooking Vicenza. The Blessed Virgin appeared on this hill twice with a promise to rid the people of the plague if they promised to build a church on the spot. The people honored their promise, but I am a living testament that the plague returned centuries later.

  Now, amid the rose bushes and stone pathways of the convent’s cloister, I can raise my burdened heart like an overflowing goblet, and spill it on the ground, emptying it to the last drop of vexation contained therein.

  What a terrible thing it is to bury the remains of a loved one in a cold stone crypt or a hole in the sodden earth. Repulsive creatures hide deep in that dark. Things vile and abhorrent; slithering worms, sinister insects with unseeing eyes and worthless wings.

  What would happen if, after they lowered someone’s coffin into its vault or hole in the ground, they learned they had made a mistake? What would happen if the crypt or coffin were not as secure as everyone believed? What would happen if desperate, panicked fingers opened the coffin in the dark? What would happen if their loved one did not die, but instead returned to the love and fidelity of friends and family? Would their loved ones be happy to see their dead relative? Or would they regret their sudden reappearance, especially if they had inherited their wealth?

  I believe most people are fake. Few truly mourn the dead. Fewer still, remember them with any real affection. Of all this, I am certain, for I have experienced it firsthand.

  Now, long after my ordeal is over, I want to narrate the events of one short year; the most agonizing year in my life; a year in which a sharp thrust from the stiletto of time stabbed me in the heart and opened a wound that still drips tainted blood to this day.

  With deliberate care, I dip my plume into the inkwell and whisper a prayer for God to forgive me. Then word by word, I begin to inscribe the story of my sin; a transgression that can never be cleansed. This is my dreadful tale...

  Chapter One

  A.D. 1628

  I, Carlotta Mancini, was born rich and noble. My mother died while giving birth to me. Many years later, my father, Count Federico Mancini, died and left me sole heir to our family villa and surrounding lands. I was sixteen years old, then, alone, and a wealthy contessa.

  At the time, people predicted a dire future for me. Because I was rich and titled, I suspected some, with spiteful anticipation, wanted to see my downfall. For a while, I became the object of their malicious predictions. The most popular tidbits of gossip foretold that I was destined for bride theft or that I might become victim to a greedy nobleman’s unscrupulous whims to usurp my wealth.

  None of this happened of course. Before he died, my father had the foresight to hire a governess and companion named Annunziata Cardano, a widow with a daughter my own age. He also hired a physician, a graduate of the University of Bologna, well versed in legal matters, to oversee my finances, my future, and to act as my guardian. My father’s forward thinking not only guarded my wealth, it allowed me to have a say in my own destiny.

  Together with my governess and her daughter, I dwelled in the villa, a miniature palazzo of white marble situated on a hill overlooking the city of Vicenza. Frescos and elegant statues decorated the numerous rooms and halls within the rambling two-storey structure. Fragrant groves of cherry and lemon trees, where nightingales warbled love-melodies, fringed my lands. Sparkling fountains with stone basins an
d cascading water refreshed hot summer days. Here, I lived peacefully for two happy years, surrounded by books and pictures, undisturbed by the world.

  Of young, eligible men, I saw little or nothing. In fact, I avoided them altogether. My wealth attracted the attention of parents with marriageable sons who sought invitations to visit. I refused them all. My governess warned me to tread carefully around male society and I had taken her warnings to heart. Ignorance was not always the safest course, as I would someday come to learn.

  My one dear friend, Beatrice Cardano, Annunziata’s daughter, disagreed with her mother’s thoughts about men and often chided me good-naturedly for avoiding them. “Oh, Carlotta!” she would say. “A woman cannot know joy until she has sipped nectar from masculine lips, experienced the clasp of eager arms round her waist, or heard the beat of a passionate heart against her own.”

  I always smiled at her words, but never responded. They failed to change my mind. Yet, I loved to hear my friend speak. Beatrice’s melodious voice was a joy and her eyes could convince with more fluency than speech. I loved Beatrice, selflessly, honestly, with that rare tenderness shared by young girls for one another.

  I was as happy in Beatrice’s company, as Beatrice seemed to be in mine. We passed most of our time together, Beatrice also having lost her father. She was as poor as I was rich, so I always gave Beatrice my gently worn garments without wounding her pride. We had much the same tastes and shared the same sympathies. I treasured nothing as much as I did our friendship. We were inseparable.

  Annunziata also warned me that destiny permits no one to continue in blissful happiness. Fate could not tolerate it. Something trivial, a glance, a word, a touch, could shatter a friendship. A love deemed deep and lasting was so fragile it could disappear like straw in the wind. Yet, I refused to believe it; a folly I would soon come to regret.

  One muggy afternoon toward the end of May, Annunziata accompanied me to Mass in Vicenza. Beatrice was not with us, having remained at home with a headache. Afterwards, trapped among the crowd exiting the church, I lost sight of Annunziata.

  Alone, I strolled through the streets, savouring my moment of freedom and delaying my return home. At the far end of a crowded, narrow street, I heard chanting and caught a glimpse of black robes approaching. Priests and nuns walked towards me in a long procession. Clerics swung gold censers heavy with incense while nuns followed, row upon row, in black and white habits, each with a prayer book in hand. A statue of the Virgin Mary, carried on the shoulders of four burly youths, led their way. I paused at the side of the street to watch them pass. One face beamed like a star from among the four young men; one face of rugged, near perfect handsomeness lit by two luminous eyes, large, round, and of the darkest brown. His curved mouth smiled to provoke. His golden hair glimmered beneath the sun’s rays.

  I gazed at him, dazzled, excited. Here was a man, the gender Annunziata had warned me to mistrust and avoid, a man of my own age, eighteen, or twenty at the most. I drank in his soul-tempting glance and captivating smile. He was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. My eyes remained on him until the procession passed and he faded from my sight. In that moment of time, although I did not realize it, one era of my life had closed forever, and a new one had begun.

  Of course, upon my return home, I made inquiries through the good physician, my guardian in all things. It took a few days for him to discover the identity of the young man I had seen carry the Madonna. His name was Dario Gismondi and he was the only son of a ruined nobleman of dissolute character, who had lost his fortune gambling. Fortunately, he had had his son educated in a Benedictine monastery renowned not only for its strict discipline, but for a vast library of rare books. The physician assured me that Dario was as trustworthy as the sun rising each morning, and I had no reason not to believe him. Once my guardian gained whatever assurances he needed to ensure it was a good match, he began negotiations to arrange our marriage. Much to my delight, Dario’s father agreed. What better match could there be for an impoverished son than a wealthy contessa alone in the world?

  Our courtship was brief and as sweet as a cup of honeyed wine. There were no impediments to block our union. We were married at the end of June.

  Beatrice Cardano graced our nuptials with her presence. “Brava, Carlotta,” she exclaimed, her eyes all aglow after we were declared married. “You have finally heeded me, and in the process, you have secured the handsomest man in the region, in the world!”

  I pressed my friend’s hand, and a touch of remorse stole over me. Beatrice was no longer first in my affections, but I could not regret this. I glanced at Dario, my husband, bedazzled and overcome with love for him. The dreaminess of his large lucid eyes crept into my soul, and I forgot everyone but him. With him, I experienced a delirium of passion and touched the highest peaks of joy.

  Our first days together passed with near bliss and the nights spun a web of rapture around us. I never tired of Dario. For me, he grew finer with each passing day. Within a few months, he knew my soul, my deepest thoughts. He discovered how certain looks could draw me to his side like a devoted slave. Did he love me? Oh, yes, I believed he loved me as all husbands love their wives, as something that belonged solely to them. In return, I begrudged him nothing, idolizing him, raising him to the stature of a god. He was an extraordinary man, sharing my passion for collecting exquisite jewels.

  We kept an open house. Our home became a meeting place for all the nobility in and around Vicenza. Everyone respected and admired Dario’s beguiling face and polite humility. Beatrice was loudest in her praise of my husband, and the respect and kindness she displayed toward Dario endeared her even more to me. I trusted and loved her as if she were my sister, and I treated her as one. I deemed my life perfect. It was filled with love, wealth, family, and friendship. What more could a woman desire? Nevertheless, there was more joy to come. Within a year, I gave birth to a daughter, fair as the jasmine that grew thick in the woods surrounding my palazzo. We named her Chiara. Minutes after her birth, wrapped in soft, embroidered cashmere, the fragile mite lay in my arms. The baby opened her eyes. They were large and dark brown as Dario’s were. Heaven itself lingered in their pure depths. I kissed the innocent face. Dario and Beatrice did the same, and those clear, quiet eyes of my infant daughter regarded us all with a strange half-inquiring solemnity. A bird, perched on the bow of a tree outside the bedroom, broke into a low, sweet song. Too exhausted to stay awake any longer, I handed my daughter back to the wet nurse, who waited to receive her.

  After Dario and the servant left the room, Beatrice laid her hand on my shoulder. “You are a good woman, Carlotta.”

  “Indeed! Why do you think so?” I asked with half-laugh. “I am no better than any other woman.”

  “You are less suspicious than most people.” Beatrice turned away and played with the tassel of her belt.

  I glanced at my friend in surprise. “What do you mean amica? Have I reason to suspect anyone?”

  Beatrice laughed and resumed her seat at the edge of the bed. “Why, no!” she answered, with a frank look. “But the world is always filled with suspicion. Jealousy’s stiletto is ever ready to strike, justly or unjustly. Children are well versed in the ways of vice. Penitents confess to priests who are worse sinners than they are, and fidelity is often a farce.” She paused a moment, a touch of sadness in her eyes. “Is it not wonderful to be you, Carlotta; a woman happy in her home, with all the confidence in the world?”

  “I have no cause to be suspicious of anyone,” I responded. “Dario is trustworthy and righteous.”

  “True!” Beatrice looked at me and smiled. “He is as pure as a flawless diamond and as unapproachable as the farthest star!”

  I concurred, but something in her manner bewildered me. What a strange conversation. Our talk soon turned to different matters and I thought no more of the matter. I did not know it then, but her words would soon return to haunt me.

  Chapter Two

  A.D. 1631

&nbs
p; A plague struck Vicenza, razing the population like a destructive demon. Its vile touch was indiscriminate, striking down scores of people, both young and old, who dropped in the streets to die. Fear, superstition, and utter selfishness reigned among the people. The illness struck its victims without warning. There were no physical signs. Brutal and virulent, it began with a cough and headache, followed by chills, fever, and shortness of breath, which left one exhausted and prostrate. Nausea, vomiting, back pain, and soreness in the arms and legs followed. Bright light became unbearable. Very few survived. Death came quickly, within two or three days. No one understood how it spread or how one contracted it. Many believed breathing the same air as those afflicted would bring it on. Whoever contracted the plague suffered great pain before taking their last breath.

  When the pestilence struck a house or family, they were likely all to die if they remained together. Frightened, people abandoned their homes and relatives to flee to another town or village. Mothers barricaded doors against their own children otherwise the authorities would board up their home and lock them all inside. Physicians could rarely be found, for they were not immune to the illness. Those who could be found, demanded vast sums before they would enter a home to tend the sick. Most of those afflicted died alone, without confessor or sacraments, their bodies reeking until the beccamorti arrived to cart them away like rubbish.

  Churches dug trenches, wide and deep, to receive the dead. The beccamorti, who passed with wagons to collect the dead, would toss them in, layer upon layer atop each other. Priests could not toll bells. Ordinances banned them from doing so because it disheartened the healthy as well as the sick. All fruits were forbidden entrance into the city. None of the guilds were operating. All the shops were shut, taverns closed; only apothecaries and churches remained open. Very few dared walk the streets. The plague enriched apothecaries, doctors, beccamorti, and vendors who tended to the sick or sold poultices of mallow, nettles, mercury and other herbs necessary to draw off the infirmity. No birds trilled until late in the evening, when the nightingales in my gardens broke out in an animated surge of song, part cheery and part glum.