Beyond the Raging Flames (The Hermeporta Book 2)

by Hogarth Brown

  ‘Then it seems the error is mine, your praise too high, and perhaps my eyes are mistaken?’ He said, adding a look, ‘I didn’t know one had to be both brave and original to pay a damsel a compliment.' Illawara’s lips puckered. Silence reigned in the room. The mistress of the house then gave out a delicate cough of her own.

  ‘PRINCE Cavalieri, I hope we’ve not offended you?’ she said. Illawara rolled her eyes, but Bianca raised a finger before she continued. ‘We very much appreciate the effort you’ve made to come and visit us on such a cold day, and our hospitality, usually, is far warmer than this weather. Have we offered you refreshment?’ Beppe nodded, before Dondo, remembering the original offer, moved in haste to open the living room door. The maid fell forward onto the floor - so pressed she was to the other side.

  Illawara turned away in her chair before she pursed her lips and cast a withering look over Grizelda with a shake of her head.

  The mistress of the house tried to ignore Grizelda’s floundering, made pleasant talk to melt the frost in the air, and distract her guest as the maid scrambled up from where she lay and scurried out like a mouse. Some moments later Grizelda, her eyes moist, returned with wine and sweetmeats for Beppe. She offered the wine, with an unsteady hand, but then dropped half the sweetmeats on the floor, which prompted Bianca to tut and remark that she had never seen her maid so clumsy. Illawara scowled and tutted under her breath. The maid avoided her eyes as she stooped to pick up the mess off the floor: she looked like wanted to die.

  ◆◆◆

  After some time, Beppe left Illawara’s dwelling suspecting that his appearance and failure to provide neither poetry nor gift had created a poor impression, and caused a disappointment in the house which Bianca seemed to struggle most to conceal. He had told the household that he would like to call again: they accepted his request.

  He clenched his fists as he chastised himself, and his legs trembled as he walked alone down the stairs that led to the door of the main entrance. He resolved to do better on his next visit. He flagged down the first carriage he could find and got the driver to take him straight back to the Master Tailors of Padua.

  Padua, Friday, December 1st, 1611

  Orsini prepared to dress in his room. He bathed himself with orange scented water, that Cook had brought up the night before, and hopped about the room with cold as he sponged, and scrubbed at himself all over till he felt clean. When finished, he found the scented liquid had invigorated him before he dried himself. He had laid out on the floor, in advance, the garments that Cook approved. He stood naked for a while and pondered his clothes: woollen stockings, fawn coloured round hose, linen shirt, tan leather jerkin, pale blue doublet, lace collar, wide-brimmed hat and an oiled leather cloak.

  Orsini caught sight of himself in the mirror, slapped at his tummy, and beat his fists on his chest like a gorilla to encourage himself. He then guffawed at his reflection and remembered he needed to wear a codpiece when not in clerical robes. He rummaged again within his friend’s chests to find the particular garment.

  He found one he liked made of dark leather and allowed himself a gloat of pride as he struggled to stuff his genitals into the modest item. Orsini then took up some scissors to trim some of the groin hairs that had escaped capture of the codpiece and snipped with venom at the ones that were grey. His reflection disappointed him. He clutched at spare flesh and shook his head.

  The Cardinal had dithered away much of the night, wasting two candles, over what belts and rings to wear to improve his look. He settled for a jade green belt that he was surprised his friend possessed, and chose to wear a gold ring, of his own, set with a plump cushion cut ruby: another ring of his he would conceal in a pocket. He stood still while he looked at himself again.

  He frowned and rubbed his chin before he swapped the original jerkin for one grander. He then put on his thick dark woollen stockings, to protect himself from the cold, and admired his legs, thinking them still good. He pulled on his linen shirt, but then cursed Cook’s hearty food when he had to suck in his stomach to try and to do up the last buttons of his favoured jerkin: the garment resisted his efforts.

  He then lay back on his bed and tugged hard at the embossed leather. He cursed aloud again and breathed in to reduce his stomach to no avail. Red-faced, he had failed. The bottom three buttons would not close. The Cardinal shrieked with frustration. With an effort, he stood up and rummaged within his friend’s wooden chests again to find himself a girdle. He then yelled down to Cook, that late frosty morning, for her help putting on what he had found.

  ◆◆◆

  ‘Tighter!’ Orsini growled, bare-chested, as Cook tugged at the strings of his girdle while he braced himself and held onto a robust oak cabinet.

  ‘I’m trying’ said Cook, wiping sweat from her brow, ‘but you’re built like an ox and just a stubborn.’

  He gasped after another vigorous tug from the woman. ‘Hush your complaining’ he wheezed, ‘I blame you. How often have I said that you cook with too much butter, cream and cheese!’ Cook rolled her eyes.

  ‘But that didn’t stop you EATING, did it?’ she scoffed, with another yank of the girdle stays. ‘You Romans are all the same’ she clucked, ‘you complain and say all you want is tomatoes, olive oil and garlic, but put a good plate of Paduan food in front of you, and you hog it all down' she added. '"Ride a big horse and hold your stomach in. That's all a man needs to trim his waist” is what my dear father said' Cook reprimanded.

  'I have Gino'

  'A donkey is not a horse' huffed Cook, as she fussed with the strings and made ready to tug again. He turned to slice his eyes at her. 'Have I not said it a dozen times?' She pulled hard, 'but a man like you is not a sparrow, but an eagle and you must EAT.’

  ‘Tighter’ coughed Orsini, before snatching in a breath, while Cook carried on her admonishments,

  'You should be glad that I feed you at all’ she said prodding at the Cardinal, ‘and that I don’t heed too often your foreign ways. Without me, you’d be too thin to survive the cold.’ And with that Cook used her strong fingers to give a vicious yank of the strings, eliciting a groan from Orsini, and tied the loose ends as if she had finished sewing in the stuffing on a joint of pork shoulder. The Cardinal shook his head and raised an arm in surrender before he paused for breath. He wiped the sweat away from his forehead before he clutched his hands to his broad but more disciplined waist.

  With shallow breaths, he thanked Cook for her brawn. She eyed him with a shake of her head. ‘Your ass is sticking out’, she said with a giggle. Orsini gave her a dirty look. She resisted the urge to spank him on his behind as if he were a naughty boy. For it seemed to her that is what all men became when they sought the love of a woman. In her mind, there could be no other explanation for Orsini’s efforts. A mature man would not go to such lengths to stroll about the town, spend an afternoon at church, or meet a male friend.

  Orsini looked at himself again, agreed with her statement, but admired the shape the girdle gave back to his body. For a moment the image in the mirror seemed a closer match to the one kept in his mind of the young man he once was.

  Cook observed Orsini’s self-critique in silence, and in her wisdom, did not ask more questions, as he moved like a man wearing armour, but chatted and dressed, turning this way and that in front of the mirror. Cook teased him but took pains not to injure the pride of the man. She felt his majesty on some instinctive level, though never being told Orsini's true identity - his natural baring was too learned and too grand, and his tastes too subtle to be of humble stock. She already felt honoured that he had taken her into his confidence to that extent.

  Cook looked on and then saw her son in Orsini's place before he was struck down at the peak of his youth. The Cardinal moved as he did then before he would leave the house with his friends to go drinking, wooing, and singing to the maids of the town. And their looks were similar too. The man regained a sprightliness as he posed. Maybe her son would have grown to look like Orsini if
he had lived longer? She sighed. ‘Men never quite grow up’ she mused under her breath. Orsini rechecked his stomach profile and tapped his torso with satisfaction that the jerkin buttons, just, obeyed his corseted body.

  'I'm still strong' he said, smiling at her. He looked better when he smiled. Cook nodded.

  Boys and men are all the same she thought. Feed them well, and they will love you. Orsini sensed, just from her stance, that Cook had read his motives, but also gladdened that she did not ask him to explain his considerable efforts.

  Word of the numerous suitors, across Padua, that paid court to a mysterious beauty had reached her ears, and as she watched him, she knew that he intended to present himself to the woman.

  ◆◆◆

  The Cardinal had made a note of where his Henchman said that Illawara lived, and later that day he stepped out of his carriage and into the crisp air of the shaded via Nazario Sauro. His carriage driver was brisk in his delivery and request for payment.

  ‘I shall be able to buy myself a fine coat before long’, the driver said with a cackle, rubbing his hands at the cold, before he jabbed his finger in the direction of an upper floor window. ‘Up there’ he added. The disguised Cardinal nodded, but then his mind became awash with thoughts of Illawara, as he tossed the coins into the palm of the driver that left with as much haste as he had arrived.

  He spied the movements of two figures in the window the driver had pointed at and waited in the street for service. The door to the communal entrance then flew open, and a well-dressed young man stomped out into the road wearing a scowl, not noticing Orsini before he turned to glare up at the window for a moment. He then made a foul gesture before trudging down the street and away from the house.

  The Cardinal frowned, took in a shallow breath, and stroked his palms down his jerkin before he moved closer to the door, and waited for someone to approach him. It did not take long. He then saw a stout man with grey hair stick his head out of the doorway, and survey the street like a ferret leaving its burrow. The coast seemed clear.

  He spied Orsini, smiled, and emerged with caution to welcome the stranger. Orsini stood his ground.

  ‘Good day to you, Signore’ he said crossing the street, ‘allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dondo, of Genoa, and I attend to the mistress of this house.’

  He nodded and touched the brim of his hat, but did not smile before he replied, ‘Don Pietro Orsini’, and he almost added the title of Cardinal to his self-introduction - being so accustomed to when meeting new people. It did not matter, for Dondo’s eyes flashed with recognition at the Orsini name, and a chill caressed the Genoan.

  Dondo knew, at that moment, he had to be with a Cardinal, or another man of some other high rank, as he took in Orsini’s distinctive Roman features, stature and voice. Here we have a man of clout thought Dondo.

  The handyman swallowed,

  ‘Allow me to lead the way’ he said before they both crossed the street, entered the building, and ascended the stairs in silence.

  On the way up, the flights above echoed with footsteps, and then a man in his thirties appeared, flustered, before the pair in the stairwell. He made his excuses and barged past them before he tossed a scrunched-up ball of paper down to the floor below with a huff.

  Orsini raised an eyebrow at Dondo, as the man clattered his way downward. The handyman took on a peevish expression. ‘This way’, he said with a lifted hand and avoided the vice-like gaze of his new guest.

  Dondo opened the door and invited the Cardinal in, who then surveyed the decor with a critical eye. Orsini stepped inside and noticed a thin woman hiding behind the door, and she shrank back when he took off his cloak with one sweep. He then handed her his cloak and hat without Dondo having to say a word of introduction.

  ‘May we offer you some refreshment?’ He stammered, as Grizelda made ready to hurry away, and she fussed at her hemline with eyes rooted to the floor as she awaited the stranger’s response.

  Orsini cast his eyes again over the passageway, sniffed at the air, ran his hand across the wall and rubbed his fingers together.

  ‘What do you have?’ he said, and Dondo, doing his best to stay calm, struggled to remember and recite what they had in the stores to offer him. The Cardinal listened to Dondo ramble. ‘I’ll take a glass of Malmsey’ he said with a curl of his mouth. Grizelda gave a dip of her knees at the request, with his cloak and hat slung across her arms, and made off down the passageway with pace to hang the items and bring the wine.

  Dondo hesitated in front of the living room door and wondered how to introduce Bianca and Illawara without sounding ridiculous. The Cardinal watched Dondo fumble for words, sighed, and opened the door himself.

  He recognised Illawara in a heartbeat and again felt a bolt strike through him as if he were an oak split by lightning. He narrowed his eyes at Bianca, who then began to fidget, sat next to Illawara in her ornate chair.

  You’ve aged badly he thought, after accepting that he stood in the dwelling of Antonio’s disgraced mother. Illawara had ignored his entrance and sat turned away from the door, in profile, with her chin poised upon her knuckles and a dejected gaze reaching far beyond the walls.

  Orsini willed her to look at him, and with a deep breath and a sigh, she turned to look at the doorway.

  Their eyes locked with one another, and Illawara shot upright when she saw the man, and her heart raced when she recognised the magnetic stare of the Cardinal. His disguise did not fool her for a moment. The air electrified, and Dondo and Bianca looked to one another at Illawara’s immediate response.

  The Cardinal and Illawara observed each other without a word until Dondo, perplexed, announced the man. ‘Allow me to introduce Signore Pietro Orsini’ he said with hesitation. Bianca's eyes became saucers before she opened her new French fan with a snap of her wrist. She flapped at herself, and let her mind race at the prospect of having an Orsini in her house. She knew the Church as well as her hands, and she remembered a particular Orsini that Giovanni knew once upon a time. But that man was an athletic youth she had not seen for over twenty-five years.

  What is an Orsini doing here? He could be a Cardinal by now. Impossible, no, it can’t be him? Bianca thought, eyeing up the man, and trying to piece together memories, dusty and vague, of a young Orsini that knew Giovanni before her scandal and ruin. The Cardinal stood tall and gazed at Illawara without speaking. DEAR GOD IT IS HIM Bianca thought. Heat rose to her face as she covered her mouth. You’ve gained weight, but lost your hair she mused, as she remembered a much trimmer waist and dark flowing locks. Illawara made a half move forward.

  Memories flooded back to the mistress of the house. She saw a much younger Orsini stood next to Giovanni when he would call up to her window and encourage his friend to woo her - while already knowing she was betrothed to marry another.

  The image solidified in her mind, as she studied him with more vigour, and recalled hearing that he had joined The Church, like his fore-bares, after much roving around. He HAS to be a Cardinal by now, but what on Earth is a Prince of the Vatican doing here to see her? She thought, scanning Illawara with fresh eyes.

  She made eyes at Dondo and he back at her for it was evident to both that Illawara and Orsini had met before, and shared some profound experience. I’ve not questioned the girl enough she thought. Bianca fanned herself harder as she simmered in her chair and forced her body to be still.

  Illawara pondered the name of her dancing partner, and protector in Florence, as if for the first time. She knew upon sight of his scarlet robes, the truths from others, and his spirited defence of her honour in front of the Florentine mob that he bore the title of Cardinal.

  But seeing him there in front of her, dressed as a secular man, impressed her with his daring and sheer determination. The risks he had taken impacted her to her soul. No one present referred to him being a Prince of the Church, but everyone within knew it in their own way. Orsini’s presence engulfed the room while silence clung to the air. Looks bounce
d amongst everyone as marbles do when tossed down stairs. No one knew what to say, but Orsini then twitched his brow to Dondo, and the man remembered himself and carried on his introductions.

  He introduced Bianca and Illawara, as he had done so many times in the previous month, and three times earlier that day. But Dondo suspected his introductions were redundant.

  The Cardinal took scant interest in Bianca: she, however grand in her clothes, conformed to his expectations, and he denounced her within himself as no more than a minor, desperate, and washed up noblewoman of a fallen house. The mistress read his movements, her nostrils flared and her face curdled into a grimacing smile, but her glass like eyes could not conceal an expression of contempt as she held out her hand for Orsini to kiss.

  But Illawara, familiar with Bianca’s moods, read body language better than the Latin Bible foisted upon her by her mistress. An exquisite revenge flowed through her when Orsini walked forward, ignoring Bianca’s outstretched paw and the timid Grizelda - stood, with the Malmsey, like dunce by the door - to take her hand in his and kneel.

  She swallowed as her heart leapt, and her mouth became dry. His broad hand felt hot as it held hers, and although the Cardinal had no claim to youth her soul stirred when he looked up into her eyes. With his lashed agate coloured irises, his pupils like black lakes, he fixed her. His lips lingered upon her cool skin that flamed at his touch. She breathed in deep a waft of orange blossom, combined with the natural scent of him, and her spirit convulsed as she relived their dance and her escape from the mob.

  ‘I’m devoted to you’ he said with all his heart, smoothing her hand with his, and not for one moment taking his eyes off her. Illawara became light-headed while falling into his gaze, mesmerised, for she knew, as did all present, that he had spoken the solemn truth.

  ‘I know’ she nodded, as she searched him to the depths, for she saw no point to deny the obvious.