Bianca

by Small Bertrice

  They stood together watching as Orianna Pietro d’Angelo rode out of sight. Bianca shivered suddenly. “She will have her way unless we are quickly gone from here,” she warned her lover. “I know my mother, Amir. She can be ruthless and without mercy when she is defied. She always meant me to have a Venetian marriage.”

  “Do not be afraid, beloved,” he assured her. “I will begin making arrangements for our departure this very day. It will take time, however. I will not send you alone. We must go together. I need to settle my affairs in Florence, and advise my grandfather that I am coming home. The rest of it I will explain to him once we are there.”

  “I am suddenly afraid,” Bianca said. “I have not been afraid since I escaped my late husband’s palazzo. My mother could not have whoever it was she loved and left behind in Venice when she was married off to my father. Francesca once overheard my grandparents speaking of it when they visited, and she told me. My mother doesn’t want me to have what she could not. She will do whatever she must to separate us, my love. Do not trust her or her words. Take me away quickly! Before she has time to act against us.”

  “As quickly as I can, Bianca! Now let us go for a ride and forget the unpleasantness your mother brought into our midst.”

  Bianca felt better when they returned. The air had been fresh and tangy from the sea, and her fears had evaporated in the warm sunshine. “What are you doing?” she asked Agata, finding her servingwoman busily packing her possessions when she walked into her bedchamber.

  “Your mother told me to begin packing for our return to Florence,” Agata said.

  “I am not going to Florence,” Bianca told the servant. “I am going to Turkey with Prince Amir. Will you come with me, or stay here?”

  “As if I really have a choice,” Agata said candidly. “If I stay, your mother will kill me for not stopping you and send me from the family’s employ, so I must go with you.”

  “I will give you enough money to escape your servitude if you would prefer to remain,” Bianca told the loyal Agata. “I do not want you unhappy, but I know my mother would blame you as if you could stop me.”

  “No, I will go with you willingly,” Agata said. “You are a good mistress, and if it is fated for me to die unshriven in a foreign land, then so be it. We have seen no priest since we left Florence all those months ago, and I have almost forgotten my faith.”

  “You do not seem weighed down with your sins,” Bianca teased, and Agata laughed. “Continue packing, for we are to make a journey no matter where we go.”

  Amir came to Bianca that night, climbing up to the little wrought-iron balcony outside her bedchamber window, entering her bed like a secret lover after removing his clothing. Naked, she wrapped herself around him, sighing as his hands caressed her from the nape of her neck to her shoulders and down her back. Their lips touched and the fires of their passion exploded. They reveled in the sensation of her breasts against his smooth, hard chest, her slightly rounded belly against his flat belly, her mons sensuously pressing against his mound.

  They nibbled on each other. She on his earlobe, her little teeth biting down just enough to give the sensation of pain without hurt, her tongue sweeping around the curve of his ear’s whorl while she murmured little endearments to him. He first nipped the nipples of her breasts, then fastened his mouth upon one, sucking it hard while his fingers played between her nether lips, teasing at the tiny nub of flesh that could set her afire, then pushing two fingers into her sheath, moving them back and forth until she cried his name.

  He tucked her beneath him and entered her eagerly waiting body. She sighed with intense pleasure as his cock opened her to his passion, filling her with its length, its thickness. She wrapped herself about him, clutching him, her fingers digging into the flesh of his broad shoulders, scoring his back lightly with her nails as the intensity of their coupling increased her passion. She loved him. There was nothing else.

  She was his! His! He had never in his life wanted and needed any woman until sweet Bianca. His own English captive mother had died when he was young. His father’s women cared for him after that, but there was never again the love for him that his mother had lavished upon him. He was educated, fed, and clothed. Nothing more.

  He had thought perhaps that one of the two maidens his grandfather had given him would love him, but neither did. They were grateful for his kindness and they were dutiful, but there was no passion, no burning need, no excitement. He was appreciative of their care of him when he was at home. But with Bianca, it was all different. There was a constant longing, a need that could be filled only by this beautiful woman. He would not let her go. She was his, and he was hers. Nothing was going to change how they felt.

  Orianna Pietro d’Angelo, however, had different plans for her daughter Bianca. Her sudden arrival home but a few days after her departure was a great surprise to her household. They had expected her to be away for several weeks visiting Bianca. Her mood indicated she was not pleased. Both her servants and her children walked cautiously around the silk merchant’s wife that day.

  A servant had been dispatched immediately to fetch the master from his mistress’s dwelling where he had been enjoying a leisurely afternoon away from his silk warehouses. His mistress was upset at his quick departure and cried, which annoyed him. He intended to be most put out on his arrival home, but one look at his wife’s face told him the matter was very serious, else she would not be back so quickly. They spoke together in his library immediately.

  “What is it?” he asked her, knowing Orianna needed little encouragement.

  “Bianca is in love!” his wife began dramatically.

  Was that all it was? The silk merchant decided that he was annoyed after all. “Is the man suitable? It will certainly solve the problem of what to do with her, cara.”

  “Do you consider an infidel suitable, signore?” she asked archly. “She has fallen in love with the Turkish sultan’s grandson, and worse, he loves her.”

  “What?” He knew of the Turkish antiquities and rug merchant the Arte di Calimala claimed as their own member. “How did she meet him, Orianna?”

  “His is the villa next to Luce Stellare,” she explained. “But it does not matter how they met, Gio—they met. They are lovers in love! Such a thing cannot be allowed, husband. He is an infidel! He would leave Florence and take her to his home in Turkey, and she is eager to go with him. My father had planned an important marriage for Bianca before you forced her to wed Rovere,” Orianna reminded her husband sharply.

  “Would you have had Rovere see our son accused of a murder his own son probably did?” Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo demanded to know. Would Orianna never forget? It was water under the bridge now.

  “My father has agreed to make another match in Venice for Bianca,” his wife said.

  “What of Francesca?”

  “Francesca can come home to Florence, and we will seek a French marriage for her now. Our second daughter has my coloring, and is as great a beauty as Bianca is with her dark hair. What cannot be allowed is for Bianca to run off with this Turkish prince. You must go to Lorenzo di Medici. He can have the sultan request that his grandson return home. That will put an end to the matter, Gio. For God’s own good mercy, you cannot allow Bianca to be stolen away.”

  “By the time the Medici sends to the sultan and gets an answer, Bianca and her prince could be gone,” Giovanni pointed out to his wife. “If you have shown them your disapproval, and I am certain you have, they are even now preparing to flee.”

  “Let the di Medici imprison Prince Amir until he can be sent home,” Orianna said. “Then we may forcibly fetch Bianca and bring her to her senses, Gio. Her marriage to Rovere was a horror, as we both know. Let her come home and see the benefits of a happy marriage between two good friends, Gio. In the meantime, my father will find her a husband of wealth and stature in Venice. I want our daughter happy.”

  She wanted Bianca happy, he thought. Yet she would plot to take their daughter away fro
m the man she loved because he was an infidel. Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo did not discuss his religion with anyone, but having married a woman who did not love him, he thought perhaps the prince who loved Bianca, for all that he was an infidel, was a better match than some stranger of wealth and stature anywhere. But he knew better than to argue with Orianna in matters of their children. She would not be denied that which she believed right, and Bianca’s misalliance with Rovere had been allowed only to protect their oldest child, Marco.

  “I will seek an audience with Lorenzo di Medici immediately, cara,” he told her.

  Orianna’s shoulders relaxed, and she smiled at him. “Go back to your mistress now, Gio. I apologize for taking you away from her. I am sure you were relaxing from the cares of your business. Will you be home later?”

  “But late,” he said quietly as he arose to go. Orianna could be very understanding.

  “Of course,” and she smiled again. They were going to save Bianca from the biggest mistake of her life, and she felt reassured now. Orianna felt little guilt for the unhappiness she would cause her eldest daughter. It would be temporary. Bianca was like her mother—a practical woman. Once she accepted the fact that she had no other choice than to let her misery go, she would. As she had accepted the fact of her marriage to Sebastiano Rovere.

  Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo, as he had promised his wife, sought an audience with Lorenzo di Medici. Although Florence was a republic, and had no noble lord ruling it, the head of the di Medici family had for some years been considered the most influential man in the city. The main government body was chosen regularly several times each year. Every male guild member who was thirty or older, free of debt, who had not served a recent term or was related to a man who was currently serving, was eligible for a two-month term in the Priori. Their names were drawn from bags kept at the church of San Croce. They served in the Signoria, which consisted of nine men. Six came from the major guilds, two from the minor guilds. The ninth man was called the gonfaloniere. It was he who was the temporary custodian and standard-bearer of the city’s banner.

  To make certain each of the major and minor guilds was properly represented when the names were drawn, only those eligible for that particular term were chosen to serve. Once elected for their two-month term, the members of the Priori moved to the Palazzo della Signoria to live. They were housed luxuriously, fed splendidly, and even entertained. Each man wore a bright scarlet coat with an ermine lining. The collar and cuffs of the coats were also ermine. The gonfaloniere had gold stars embroidered on his coat so he might be told apart on public occasions.

  There were other councils as well, consisting of other citizens: a council of twelve citizens, and another of sixteen. They were called the Collegi. If necessary, other councils were elected for commerce, security, or war. There were various officials such as a chancellor and a chief justice.

  When difficulty threatened the republic, the great bell in the campanile of the Palazzo della Signoria would be tolled to bring all the male citizens of the city over the age of fourteen into its piazza. Each section of the city gathered behind its banner to march together into the piazza. Once it was decided that at least two-thirds of the male population was there, it was considered a parlamento, which formed a balia, a committee to deal with whatever emergency had brought them into the public square.

  Still, despite the pride the Florentines had in their system, there were always families like the di Medici who seemed more prominent than other wealthy families. Families that appeared to have more influence over the events of other men’s lives. It was they that people like Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo, needing special or great favors, sought out in times of personal crisis. So it was that the silk merchant found himself being ushered into the presence of Lorenzo di Medici one afternoon, having begged an urgent audience several days earlier.

  Lorenzo was probably the most charismatic di Medici ever born. Alone in a beautiful library, he was strumming on a lute, which, upon Giovanni’s entrance, he handed to a hovering servant. He then dismissed the man with a graceful wave of his hand so he and his guest might have the privacy he knew Giovanni would want. He greeted the silk merchant warmly and invited him to sit. He himself poured the wine and handed Pietro d’Angelo an exquisite crystal goblet with a gold rim, which allowed the drinker to admire not just the taste but the lovely color of the vintage he offered.

  He was surprised to see Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo coming to him. The silk merchant was a successful man. He was known to manage his own affairs with competence, and without the need or advice of others. “It must be very serious,” he said to his guest, “for you to come to me, Gio. You look troubled. How is your beautiful wife? And your fine children? How may I serve you?”

  “It is serious, my lord,” the silk merchant said and then he took a deep swallow of wine before continuing. “What I need cannot be accomplished without your help. Whatever the cost of that help, I must have it.”

  Lorenzo di Medici nodded encouragingly and let his guest unburden himself.

  “It is my eldest daughter, Bianca, my lord.”

  “A lovely girl,” Lorenzo noted. “I remember Rovere displaying her at his more respectable dinner parties. And then she was not seen again. She had wit, Gio, and great charm. I was surprised when you married her to Sebastiano Rovere.”

  “I did not want to, my lord, but Rovere, to my shame, blackmailed me, and I had no other choice,” Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo admitted.

  “Tell me,” di Medici said. “It will not go beyond this chamber.”

  The silk merchant reluctantly told the great man the tale of Stefano Rovere and his eldest son, Marco. He completed the story by saying, “I feared for my son, and I feared for our family’s good name and fortune, signore. I knew not what else to do.”

  “Ahh, so that is how he obtained the fair Bianca,” Lorenzo replied. “How dishonorable of him. The man was despicable, and the city better for his death. Do you perhaps know who killed him, Gio?”

  The silk merchant looked horrified. “No, my lord, I do not!” he exclaimed.

  “They did Florence a great service,” Lorenzo di Medici said drily. “Gelding him and stuffing his cock and balls in his mouth were most fitting. But now let us get back to whatever problem it is you are having regarding Bianca, and we will see if we can help.”

  “Signore, you know the Turkish merchant Prince Amir ibn Jem?”

  “A charming and intelligent man, and an honest, reputable merchant. Yes, I know him quite well, Gio. Why?”

  “My late son-in-law would not allow us to see Bianca for some months after the wedding. Then finally one day my wife was permitted to enter his palazzo. She found our daughter abused, sick, and terrified of her husband. Rovere was in the courts that day. Orianna did not hesitate. She removed Bianca from her husband’s home immediately and hid her in the convent of Santa Maria del Fiore until we were able to send her secretly to a small villa down by the sea that had been part of my mother’s dowry. She has lived there ever since. Her neighbor is Prince Amir.”

  “They have become lovers,” Lorenzo Medici said astutely.

  “Yes, after Rovere’s death but not before, my daughter swore to her mother. We wish to make a new marriage for Bianca, but she refuses to return to Florence or even discuss the matter. She would remain with the prince, and he would take her as a wife,” the silk merchant said in a distraught voice. “Such a thing cannot be, my lord. It cannot!”

  “No,” Lorenzo di Medici agreed slowly, “it cannot. He is an infidel for all of his charm and good reputation among our community. But how do you expect me to help you with this problem, Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo?”

  “Can you not send to his grandfather, the sultan, with all speed requesting that he recall Prince Amir to Turkey, my lord? If he were gone, my wife is certain we could bring Bianca to see reason,” the silk merchant said. “She has no calling to the Church, and so she must be married again. Her grandfather in Venice is even now seeking a suitable
match for her. That was where we intended marrying her before Rovere blackmailed us.”

  “I can send to the sultan with such a request, of course,” the di Medici replied, “but it would be weeks before this matter could be settled and Prince Amir gone. In the meantime, he could get your daughter with child, and such a thing would make her unmarriageable, for no man of good family would accept her as his wife then.”

  “Then what are we to do, my lord?” the silk merchant asked despairingly. “What are we to do? I wish this man no harm, but he cannot have my daughter. My wife cannot eat or sleep for her distress in this matter.”

  “However,” Lorenzo di Medici continued as if his guest had not even spoken, “we could secretly jail Prince Amir in the Palazzo della Signoria until his grandfather sends his Janissaries to escort him home. No one need know he is there. I will personally see that he is treated with all the respect due to his rank. Once he has disappeared, you can retrieve your daughter and make happier plans for her. Would that suit you, Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo?” Lorenzo di Medici smiled as he saw relief filling the silk merchant’s face.

  “My lord! It is a brilliant plan! How can I thank you?”

  “It is actually a small thing for me, Gio,” Lorenzo di Medici replied. “I know how to approach Sultan Mehmet, for my father’s many years as a diplomat and my own small experience serving the republic taught me how to deal with great rulers. Make no mistake, Gio; Mehmet the Conqueror is a great ruler and an intelligent man for all he is an infidel. Sending Prince Amir away is a sacrifice on my part, for I have always enjoyed his company, and the treasures he has found for me over the past few years are unequaled. No other dealer in antiquities has ever been so successful. But while we can share our courtesans and whores with an infidel, we cannot give them or allow them to take our daughters. I have never known him to care enough about a woman to want her for a wife. He is unlikely to give Bianca up, and from what you have said, Bianca will not give him up willingly. She must be protected for her own sake. As for what you owe me . . .” He paused as if thinking. “There will come a day when I ask a favor of you, Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo, and you will not refuse me, no matter the price.”