Portrait of a Conspiracy

by Donna Russo Morin

  The women began to talk at once, strength of purpose infusing them, and for a time they chatted and worked, and chatted of their work, and that of Botticelli and his giant mural, conversations layered upon others, overlapping, mingled with amusements, much in the way it had been before, yet tinged with something, something off-color, something it had never been.

  As the bells of None rang out, they departed as they always had, though not a one felt the same as when they had arrived.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “True capability is only learned when tested.”

  “I look the fool,” Mattea fiddled with the layers and layers of fabric heaped upon her body. The blue and gold brocade gown brought out the highlights in her fair hair and the sparkle of her azure eyes. The same seed pearls trimming every edge of her overgown hung from her ears, and took strategic spots upon her grand coiffure of twisted and piled braids.

  All of this the girl could accept, grateful to Isabetta for finding such an ensemble for her and helping her into it, though she felt weighed down by a net full of stones. In the reflective glass’s gaze, however, the face looking back at her, one adorned by cosmetics for the first time in its life, gave her pause. How surprised she was by the glow upon her cheeks, how they made her blue eyes look so much bluer. How perplexing it was to see her lips reddened; how much fuller they appeared.

  “I cannot be seen in public like this.” Mattea shivered at the thought.

  Isabetta chuckled, even more resplendently attired than her friend, wearing the one gown she had saved from better days, the one that reminded her most of those happier times. “And you shall not, for no one would recognize you. You are an amazing beauty, Mattea. You truly are.”

  Mattea dipped her chin, color rising with a peach blush.

  “Speaking of which,” Isabetta chirped, “What shall I call you tonight? Whom do you wish to be?”

  It was an interesting question. Would Mattea ever wish to be someone else? There were many reasons why she would, many things—and people—that could be hers if she were. She also knew that she could create with her hands what few others were able to. Would the benefits be worthy enough to deny her talent?

  She shook her head. All this fuss brought her thoughts in directions she need not go.

  “I shall be Adelina. Adelina della Compagni.”

  Isabetta tossed back her head and laughed. “For one so quiet, you have the most interesting sense of humor.”

  “I do, don’t I?” Mattea smiled, enjoying Isabetta’s amusement, for the name she had chosen meant nothing if not “the little noblewomen of the company.”

  “And who are you this evening?” Mattea asked.

  But Isabetta only waggled her pale brows at her fellow adventurer, and lowered the deep maroon veil further over her face, covering it completely, “Never mind about that now, you shall see.”

  Mattea squinted one eye at her. “What have you plan—”

  “Put your linen in your hidden pocket, there,” Isabetta said, tossing off her prodding and showing Mattea the hidden pouch of her gown where ladies tucked a perfume scented strip of cloth. Far too often, in homes both grand and not, odors abounded and overwhelmed and such scented cloths could keep a lady from swooning.

  Mattea knew all about such linens and such hidden pockets. What Isabetta did not know of were the other hidden items she carried on her person. If all went well tonight, she would never have the need to.

  • • •

  They could barely make their way through the crowd bunched at the door. The maggiore domo, overdressed and over impressed with himself, took each name as they entered and took his time in perusing each guest as they entered.

  “He will not know us,” Mattea hissed nervously as they drew nearer and nearer to the stout, balding man. “He will not allow us entry.”

  Isabetta patted her arm and smiled oh-so-pompously. “Have no care, I will make it right.”

  “How?”

  “And remember,” Isabetta evaded Mattea’s question, “you are Adelina della Compagni, you are allowed entrance everywhere.”

  The couple before them moved on, and they stepped before the self-important manservant.

  “Names?” He asked, or was it a rude demand?

  Isabetta raised her chin and looked down her pert nose at him, the details of which were greatly cloaked by the heavy dark veil upon her face.

  “I am Natasia Soderini and this is my cousin, Adelina della Compagni, daughter of the duke of Albenga.”

  “Erk!” Mattea squawked, then coughed.

  “Do you need some wine, cousin?” ‘Natasia’ asked with insouciant concern, already moving off and away. “We are done here, are we not?” This to the maggiore domo, who simply nodded his head, having no chance for a real reply as Isabetta turned her back to him, as nobles were wont to do.

  “Come, cara mia, I see a wonderful table.” Isabetta feigned the rolled speech of a noblewoman so well, producing a nervous twitter from Mattea.

  “You are a daring woman, aren’t you?” Mattea asked, composing herself, especially now that they had made it past the discerning eye of the doorman and were lost in the horde of people filling the small apartemente.

  Mattea’s information proved quite correct; this was a salon of great popularity, regardless of the condition of their city. The two women had barely made their way past the threshold, let alone to and through the receiving line. When they did, they were not the least disappointed in their host.

  He was a very tall man, and fair, a physique speaking strongly of his northern roots. This was no born and bred Florentine. He resembled more the stories Mattea had read of the Goths and Visigoths who had long ago, and so very often, invaded the peninsula.

  The Marchese Ranieri del Monte Pesaro wore his fair hair shorter than did Florentines, its soft blond curls winding themselves around his ears and his chin and down his forehead, almost into his startling blue eyes. The thick and upward curling mustache and pointed chin beard did little to disguise his full-lipped mouth.

  They finally made their way before him, curtsying deeply, but it was Isabetta who was made speechless by his beauty.

  “We are so very grateful for your kind invitation, Marchese.” Mattea dipped once more as she made their introductions, almost tripping on her new name.

  “It is I who am grateful to have such beautiful women call upon me.” The Marchese took her hand and leaned over it, brushing his lips softly across her skin.

  “You have the eyes of a northerner, Signorina della Compagni.” Her hand still in his, he took a step closer. “May I call you Adelina? It is such a beautiful name.”

  Mattea smiled, her eyes slanted with amused censure. Though she may not wear such finery or live in such elegance, she had met more than her fair share of rogues. She could identify one as quickly and as sharply as the name of the pigments she used in her work. If this cad found her attractive, if he would ply her with his charms, she would do the same, to her own end.

  “It is even more lovely when spoken by your lips,” “Adelina” said, for Mattea threw herself headlong into the role, picturing her lover as she did so, the very thought of him bringing a bloom to her innate sensuality. “And may I be so bold as to call you Ranieri?”

  “I would be heartbroken did you not.”

  “Ranieri!” The call came from the very center of the room, where there sat another dashing man, dark and not as tall, most likely a Florentine, but one neither woman knew. “Come, all is ready for our game.”

  Ranieri made a tick with tongue and teeth. “Oh dear, I had forgotten I promised Nestore a game of tricche-trach.” He stood in silent contemplation. “You must sit beside me, both of you. You will be my good luck.”

  With long strides, the man stomped to the middle of the room, the striped board on the small table set between two chairs, Nestore already seated upon one. Instead of taking his seat, Ranieri took the chair and moved it out of the way. Shooing three young fellows, clearly already in the
ir cups, off their perch on the settee to one side of the table, he pulled the small sofa into place where the chair had been.

  “Come,” he proclaimed, taking the women by the arm, he sat one on each side, and shimmied his wide, muscular form between them.

  Comfortably settled, ever pleased and smiling at his beauties, Ranieri turned to his opponent. “Very well then, Nestore, try your best.”

  The game began, the movement of the two colored chips across the board of patterned squares, each player doing their best to get their pieces off first while blocking the other from doing so.

  It was time for Mattea to begin her game as well. Like tricche-trach, one needed to be subtle and not reveal one’s plan.

  “You have chosen a difficult time to see the sights of Florence, I fear,” Mattea said with sympathetic innocence as she sipped the wine, then sipped again, having never tasted one finer.

  “I am not here for pleasure,” Ranieri turned a look of longing upon her, “more’s the pity.”

  Mattea batted her eyes, ignoring the rolling of Isabetta’s. “You are not?”

  “No, indeed. I have been invited, my dear, by both the Duke of Urbino and your Il Magnifico.” He made a move as he spoke, of one piece only, but of such skill it blocked most equally skillful responses. “It would seem both look for my military advice.”

  Mattea allowed the arm he had moved to the back of the settee behind her to remain. “Are we coming to that?”

  The Marchese’s studied gaze lifted from the board in favor of her face, the salacious stare now a thoughtful gaze. “I believe it will, yes.”

  Mattea had been tutored about this man. A renowned Venetian condottiere, Ranieri del Monte Pesaro, his military acumen had won him his title as well as the respect of government leaders far and wide. His two books on the subject were forever in demand, as was he, by men for his expertise on the battlefield, by women for his equal proficiency in the bedchamber. Ranieri filled both roles happily and often. Such a serious declaration as the one just made could not be taken lightly or forgotten.

  But something in his words did not make sense to Mattea, and presented her with the perfect opportunity, one taken with all honesty.

  “I am surprised to hear Il Magnifico wishes to go to war,” she said with as much nonchalance as she could muster. “I had thought he feasted on the traitors in our own midst to the exclusion of everything else.”

  Ranieri nodded, rolling the tip of his pointed beard in his long fingers as he studied the board. “This is true. And for that, he has brought me here to advise him as well.”

  Mattea cheered along with those around them as the marchese made a skillful move in reply. “I am sure you do so with great astuteness.”

  “Indeed I have. They search high and low for the miscreants yet they have not searched the convents and monasteries.”

  He shook his head pitifully as he made his next move on the board.

  Mattea could barely breathe.

  “It is as plain as can be. This was an attack made on sacred ground, by clerics,” he leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “Clearly there are entanglements with ecclesiastics at all levels. The religious houses should have been the first place to look.”

  Mattea nodded, stunned, astounded by the sagacity. “Yes, they should have searched there first, of course.” Her “they” meant the guild.

  As Ranieri leaned over to make another move, Mattea caught sight of Isabetta’s face. Her eyes bulged, and she flashed them, repeatedly, toward the door, mouthing, “go,” silently to Mattea.

  It would make their very presence questionable were they to rush away. Mattea turned the conversation with the marchese to his journey to their city, to niggle him with more questions of the same nature, may appear dubious. It mattered not, she believed he had told her all he knew that was helpful.

  The high-pitched note of the Vespruccio in the church of San Felice gave out one toll, a warning that Vespers, and therefore the new curfew, was but a short time away.

  Isabetta jumped up as if poked. “We must take our leave, Adelina. We would not wish to be caught out past curfew.”

  Ranieri jumped up, leering down with pure lewd intent. “You are not going, my dear?” Leaning closer, he tickled her ear with his soft facial hair. “I thought perhaps we could deny curfew its power together.”

  She knew what he meant. For one second, as every part of her body tingled with the thought of it, Mattea almost complied, almost.

  Mattea reached up and touched this handsome man’s cheek; she would not hurt him with her denial. Standing on tiptoes, she gave whisper to her truth, “Would that I could, dear man.” She lowered herself with a half-smile. “I fear, Marchese, my betrothed would look poorly on such behavior.”

  Ranieri’s own smile ran from his lips, as if Mattea had poured water upon one of her freshly painted works, their vibrant colors running and turning to brown. His hands dropped from her arms to his sides.

  Scoundrel he may be, but an honorable one, she was pleased to see.

  “Your man is a lucky one,” he said with a graceful bow.

  Mattea allowed her lips a wide smile. “Yes. Yes, he is. And you have been a most delightful host. I will never forget our time together.”

  Ranieri kissed her hand even as others wrangled to bid him farewell, all those who cared about the curfew. “Nor will I.”

  At the door “Adelina” turned back, a quick look over her shoulder.

  Ranieri watched her still. Though surrounded by pandering courtiers, he offered her a sly wink in parting. She laughed as she followed Isabetta out the door and into the street.

  “What was that?”

  They were barely a foot from the house on the Borgo Tegolaio when Isabetta began to poke at her.

  “That, my dear friend,” Mattea replied with more than a fair share of superiority and satisfaction, “was the best information we have received so far on our dear Lapaccia’s whereabouts. We—”

  “I know that,” Isabetta snipped with impatience. “I meant, well, what I mean is—” she stopped in the middle of the street. It grew dusky with a sun falling near the horizon, one playing hide and seek through the many structures built one on top of the other throughout the city, a sun obfuscated by thick, dark storm clouds. “When…where…how did you learn to be such…to be so…womanly?”

  Mattea tossed back her head. “That is a story for another time. The only thing that matters in the here and now is this.” She took Isabetta’s hand almost skipping along. “We know where to look, where to truly look, for the first time.”

  “Yes, yes,” Isabetta agreed, equally as enthusiastic, though she shook her head. “I cannot believe we did not think of it ourselves. Lapaccia has devoted her life to her religion, especially since her husband’s passing. Dio mio, she spends more time helping at the convents than she does with us.”

  They turned off San Remigio, onto one of the small alleyways which would lead them back to Isabetta’s home and proper clothing. It was a narrow and dark passage, but one that would allow them more anonymity as they made their way to the modest home.

  It was the greatest mistake they made this night.

  “But the problem is,” began Mattea, “which one?”

  “Which one what, dearies?”

  The women jumped and squealed at a male voice coming from close behind. Whirling round, the pair found themselves confronted.

  “It matters not to you,” Mattea told the man, or was he a boy. In the dim light in an alleyway thick with dusk and not a single lit lamp on door or post, his features held little age or wisdom, but still threatening, tall and sturdily built as he was.

  “What about me,” from the opposite direction came another, thin hips swaying. This man too was just beyond boyhood, near to the same age as Mattea.

  The women turned round, and round again. Mattea holding Isabetta’s trembling hand, pulling her with her, keeping both young men in their sights.

  “Our business is none of yours, sir
s. We only make for our home, just two doors from here.” It was a lie, but one Mattea hoped would dissuade these giovani from whatever mischief they had in mind.

  “Did you hear, Giuseppe? She calls us ‘sir,’” the second man called out to the first.

  “Then she must be very accommodating, Ignazio.”

  It was the worst thing to hear. These men did not want their jewels or any money the women may have on their person, they wanted them.

  Now Mattea and Isabetta stood back to back, hands held still. Isabetta pulled back in disgust as Ignazio drew closer, reaching out, and yanking the emerald head chain roughly from her.

  “It would seem they have much to offer,” he said, pocketing the bauble and reaching out again.

  Seconds. All she had was seconds, Mattea knew it. She moved.

  “Oh, please, I am dizzy…I…I am fainting.”

  She crumbled in a ball.

  The men moved toward her.

  Isabetta cried out, feeling Mattea’s body falling to the ground.

  Mattea reached beneath her skirts for the accessories to her attire, those she had worn since gifted to her, those she hoped never to use.

  “What are—”

  Giuseppe was but two steps away.

  Mattea shot back up, the dagger sticking out the back of her hand thrust above her head.

  “Figlio di puttana!” Giuseppe yelled, whether he called her a son of bitch in fact or just swore with surprise, Mattea cared not at all.

  “Get back!” she yelled, but to Isabetta she ordered, “Here, take it.”

  Without turning, she thrust the second dagger into Isabetta’s hand. With a look over her shoulder, Mattea saw her friend balk for a moment at the weapon she now held, she also saw Ignazio take a step closer.

  “Jab at him. Jab!” Mattea screamed. It was another order and Isabetta followed it, with great relish.

  Isabetta held the dagger with both hands, as one would a fishing pole. Any movement Ignazio made, Isabetta answered with her own, the tip of her knife she stuck out, threatening, with each move. It was an awkward defense, but the malevolent growl from deep in her throat, accompanying each shove of the blade, gave it bite and kept him at bay. Giuseppe was not so lucky.