Courtesan's Lover (43 page)

The darkness was thick and clotted. The only window in the cell was high in the wall and even at midday it admitted little light—now, as the afternoon lengthened, it was no more than a slightly fainter, grey, cross-barred slit in the black. On the floor, the scattered straw was damp and smelled of piss. There was no bed, no table, no chair. Carlo pushed himself as far into a corner as he could. He pressed back against the walls, feeling the stone chill through the linen of his shirt. Staring unseeing into the darkness, he rubbed at the floor with his fingertips, back and forth, back and forth, unthinking, until the skin was scraped raw; to his surprise, he found himself soothed by the burning in his fingers. It detracted from the terror in his mind.

The other occupant of the cell coughed.

With a smothered whimper, Carlo hunched back still farther into his corner, drawing his knees up tight against his chest, his insides churning, afraid of a resumption of the man's insistent attentions. But since his companion's return to the cell that evening, after several hours' absence, the man had been too weak to do more than curl around his cough and retch into the straw. Carlo stared at him, his belly heaving with a churning mix of revulsion, fear, and a screaming relief that it was not he who had been dragged out of the cell that morning.

Carlo had heard whispers of what awaited him if he were to be found guilty.

In this place, rumor traveled fast from cell door to cell door—if anyone overheard a gobbet of news, however trivial, it took little more than minutes for it to slither unstoppably through the building like a bead of quicksilver. Carlo discovered yesterday that Marco had been there—to accuse him of sodomy. He knew, too, that Marco had given the Spanish all the details of the failed abduction of which he, Carlo, had boasted so foolishly to the little
bardassa
.

And he knew that they thought he had killed Cicciano.

Cicciano had been dead when he, Carlo, had arrived in the inn from the
sottosuolo,
Carlo knew that, but he was well aware that the authorities were quite certain it had been he who had wielded the knife. They would burn him for it. The thought pulsed cold in his head. After all the things Carlo admitted to himself he had done, the horrible irony was that now they were planning to burn him for the one thing he hadn't done.

He wondered if Marco would be watching. When they burnt him. A wash of nausea shook him, and he retched pointlessly into the straw between his bent knees. He had witnessed a burning once, years ago. He could see in his mind the head-high pile of wood and straw, still hear the howling jeers of the crowd and the screams of the prisoner as the flames built in ferocity—and then the terrible, shattering bang as the mercy-bag of gunpowder that had been slung around the man's neck exploded.

Droplets of cold sweat sprang out on Carlo's forehead.

Luca looks pale. Poor thing—it must be so hard for him to see me like this, in Cristo's company, aware as he is of Cristo's and my history together. He seemed almost distracted back in his
sala
just now. When I reach out and take his hand, he smiles at me, but it is a brief, bleak smile. My poor Luca—if he is experiencing anything of the horror I felt while the girls were missing, I am surprised he can manage a smile at all. He squeezes my fingers, lifts my hand to his mouth, and kisses my knuckles.

We are on our way to try to save the life of a man I detest. I think I loathe him as much as I love his father. God, I utterly
despise
Carlo for what he did to my girls—even
thinking
about what he planned to do with them makes me feel sick—but I love Luca. And—incomprehensible though it is to me—Luca loves Carlo. Perhaps it's that he still loves the little boy that Carlo once was. If Carlo burns, then it will haunt Luca for the rest of his life. And I couldn't bear that.

We walk on, saying little, our footsteps quickly falling into rhythm with each other. Cristo is marching like the soldier he is, and he sets the pace. Luca, with his long legs, has no trouble keeping up, but at times, I am almost running. I suppose, of course, that I made the trip to Vasquez's apartments before by carriage, but this journey seems to be taking far longer than I thought it would. We weave our way down street after street, dodging people, animals, low-lying lines of strung washing; stepping over rivulets of filthy water and stinking piles of ordure.

There are times when Napoli feels very big and very dirty.

I glance across at Cristo. Catching my eye, he smiles and nods, but says nothing, keeping up the brisk pace he has set. “Thank you for coming with us,” I say a little breathlessly.

“I wouldn't miss this little adventure, Francesca.” His smile twists.

“But you're taking a risk, and—”

“Stop it!” he says. His marching steps jolt his words as he speaks. “Listen,
cara
, I might work with the Spanish, but I'm an Italian. My loyalties are with my own. And I care about you,
cara
—we're friends, are we not?”

Friends. A strange way of describing our relationship—but it's true. Cristo has been a good friend to me.

He says, “You need help. Help I can give. If you're on your own with him, Vasquez might play tricks with you, but he won't dare try anything with me in the room. If he's able to help you, I think he will if I'm there with you.”

Luca reaches out and takes my hand, looking across at Cristo and saying, “I'm truly grateful, Signore.”

Cristo smiles and we all march on.

By the time we arrive, I am out of breath.

We are met at the door—not by my friend Juan, but by a servant I have never seen before: a wheezy-voiced elderly Spaniard, whose face appears to have been roughly formed from a handful of crumpled parchment. “You wish see
Maestre
Vasquez?” he mumbles in very poor Italian.

“Yes. It's most urgent, please tell him.”

“I go ask if he see you.” The old man turns slowly and creaks away out of sight, leaving Cristo and me standing just inside the front door. Luca has elected to remain outside. He has said almost nothing since we left the house, but he held me close outside Vasquez's building, and kissed me just now with a kind of desperation. Oh, dear God—we simply have to succeed.

***

Vasquez is not in the great golden room with the colossal carved bed. Instead, we are shown by the parchment-faced old man into another, smaller, adjoining room, which until today I have only glimpsed through a doorway. The little Spaniard is sitting behind a long and highly polished table, which is stacked neatly with piles of papers and books, but he stands as we come into the room, and walks around the table toward me, licking his lips like a hungry dog, his eyes flicking from my mouth to my breasts with ill-disguised longing.

I am so grateful that Cristo is with me.

“I was not expecting to see you again,” he says. “After the letter you sent me, I had presumed our liaison to be at an end. And for you to be here in such company”—he glances at Cristoforo—“I confess to a little confusion. What do you want? Have you come here to…to request a resumption of our relationship?”

Cristo says quickly, “You misunderstand. We seek a favor from you,
Maestre
.”

Vasquez's gaze moves to Cristo. “Explain.”

“A young man was arrested yesterday—”

Vasquez interrupts. “Many young men were arrested yesterday. Napoli is rife with criminal activity. You Italians frequently seem to have a particularly frail grasp on the notion of law and order.”

Cristo inclines his head in acknowledgment of this unflattering opinion. When he speaks again, though, his voice is calm and reassuringly steady. “This young man, however, has been detained for a crime that he quite certainly did not commit. A murder.”

“You say he's innocent? How do you know?”

I say, “We are quite certain of his innocence because I know who
did
do it.”

Vasquez turns to me and frowns, considering. “Who?”

“A good man. A man who didn't mean to kill anyone. He was trying to save someone else's life, but it went wrong. The fight was started by the man who died.”

“But who is he—the killer? Good man or not, he must be found.”

Thanking God for Modesto's prompt decision to escape retribution, I say, “You won't find him. He's left Napoli—he ran from the city last night.” With a pang, I add, “He's long gone. And he won't be back.”

“Why do you tell me all this? Why me? What has it to do with me?”

I draw in a long breath. Stepping toward him, I take his hand. “Miguel, please, I want you to help us. I want you to plead this boy's case. I don't know who else to ask. Please do what you can to make the authorities see sense. This boy didn't do it—and if he's found guilty…”

He pulls his hand back out of my grasp, his expression cold. He has not forgiven me for rejecting him. “Such things are not in my jurisdiction,” he says. “I am a soldier, not a lawyer. As
Maestre
de
Campo
, I—”

I interrupt him. “I know you're not a lawyer. But, Miguel, you
know
many of those in authority—your
money
could be influential if nothing else. You could talk to them, at least. Try to persuade them toward leniency?”

“Why should I? Are you suggesting I try to
bribe
the authorities into flouting the law? Why is this boy important to you? Is this another discarded patron? Why have you come here?”

I hesitate. I have no idea what explanation will best serve my case. After a moment's thought, I decide on the truth. I'm not sure I can face any more lies. “I want to protect his father,” I say. “His father is a good man. A loving and virtuous man. I know it will break his heart if his son is convicted of a crime he has not committed, if he has to watch his child punished for something he hasn't done.”

“What is the boy's name?” Vasquez says in the end.

I pull in a long breath. “Carlo della Rovere.”

He frowns. “Rovere?”

I nod.

“But…but I know of this boy. Rovere stands accused not just of murder…but of sodomy and abduction. I was talking to someone about him less than an hour since.”

“Believe me, I know just what he has been accused of.”

“Then why could you possibly wish me to plead for him? The boy is depraved!”

I say nothing.

Vasquez shakes his head. “I'm sorry. I can do nothing for you. I cannot be seen to be standing in support of someone accused of such crimes. Someone in my position must be seen to be above reproach.” He pauses. Once again, his gaze travels down to my breasts, and I see in his face his growing resentment at my decision to abandon him.

Cristoforo moves in closer to where I am standing. He widens his eyes at me and nods his head toward the bag I have in my hands. In the bag is my diary. My insurance.

“Above reproach?” I say.

“Of course.”

“Can I read you something, Miguel?”

He frowns curiously. I pull the vellum-bound book out of the bag and hand the bag to Cristo.

“What is this?”

“You'll know when I start reading.”

I cross to a chair, seat myself in it, and, looking up once at Vasquez to make sure he is listening carefully, I open the book, flick through several pages until I find the place I have marked with a thin strip of leather, and begin to read.

When I look up again, Vasquez is staring at me. He has gone pale. His lips have parted and his eyes are wide. “
Madre
de
Dios
,” he mutters. “Why did you write these things? And when? I told you about…about what happened in Milan
in
confidence
.”

“And so far, I haven't broken that confidence. You know that my life as a courtesan has finished, Miguel. But all the time I was working, I always thought it prudent to keep a careful account of everything I did with my patrons. I was told on a number of occasions, by people with experience in such things, that a woman never knows when it might come in useful to be prepared.”

“Why do you read it to me now?”

I hesitate. “Oh,” I say as airily as I can manage, “just to help you to see that
no
one
can be held to be above reproach.”

“Can I see the book?”

“No,” Cristo says firmly, stepping forward to stand between me and Vasquez, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “That book stays in the Signora's possession at all times. There is another volume,” he adds (untruthfully, but with great conviction), “with further, equally frank accounts of your liaison with the Signora depicted in it. That book has been hidden in the city,
Maestre
, lodged with people who will quite certainly take it to the authorities should anything happen to this one, or to either of us.”

Vasquez says nothing. After a long moment's silence, he crosses the room and stands looking out of the long window, out into the street below. “What do you intend to do with these accounts?”

“Nothing,” I say. I pause, my gaze fixed upon his back. “Nothing at all. I'll burn the books, in fact. Happily. And you can stand with me and watch them burn. If, that is, you help me now by pleading this boy's case for me. If not…” I pause again “…then I shall pass it to the authorities. I'm sure they will find it most entertaining.”

Vasquez turns back into the room and stares at me.

Several long seconds snail past. Then he says, “This young man may not have committed this murder, but apparently there is a witness…a boy, whose evidence will prove the other two charges. Beyond doubt. And in any case, if Rovere's father is so virtuous, how is it that he has allowed his son to stray so far?”

Cielo
, this man's hypocrisy is sick making! Trying not to reveal my contempt as I think of the vast sums of money Vasquez must have spent on wanton self-gratification since he was first introduced to me, and seeing again in my mind the poor ruined girl in the convent in Milan, I say, “Surely God only expects each man to be responsible for his own actions. Not for those of any other.”

Vasquez colors. “And why,” he says, “do you care so much about this man's broken heart? Whoever he is.”

He's jealous! I say, avoiding the issue, “What will happen to Carlo if he is convicted?”

He swallows. “For sodomy, no doubt the
strappado,”
he says. “For the abduction and the murder, who knows—I imagine the stake. As a public deterrent, perhaps the one will be followed by the other.”

The
strappado
and the stake. A hollow chillness opens up behind my face. Oh, sweet Jesus, what if we fail? I saw a boy endure the
strappado
once, many years ago. I was sixteen. He was hardly older than me; he was thin and dirty and had wet himself with terror. Along with most of the town, I saw half a dozen men tie the poor creature's hands together behind his back, and then push him ahead of them up stone steps to the ramparts of the city wall. They fixed the end of the rope to an iron ring. And then they threw him off. As he reached the end of the rope, some three feet from the ground, his arms jerked up behind him, dislocated, and then broke. I'll never forget the noise they made. He didn't die—but I wished for him that he had.

Feeling sick, I say to Vasquez, “And what about you? What will happen to you if I make public what I know? How will your superiors react to the spiciness of my revelations?”

He takes a step closer to me. Cristo stands squarely between us, arms held out sideways. “You bitch!” Vasquez hisses over Cristo's shoulder. “You know what was in that letter, don't you? You read it that day. I thought you had.”

He rants at me in Spanish for a moment and I am bewildered. What letter? What is he talking about? Then I remember Vasquez, bursting into the golden room and shouting at his men; screwing up the piece of paper he had been flapping in their faces, and stuffing it into his breeches pocket. I remember it falling out of his pocket at my feet while I was dressing and he was at his close-stool. Hoping that my ignorance of its actual contents does not show in my face, I say, “And what if I did read it? What if I know?”

“Then…” Vasquez's voice seems on the point of cracking. “Then you will know what will happen to me if any further evidence of…of what they term ‘moral degeneracy'…reaches the ears of the authorities.”

I almost laugh. So that's what it was all about! A final warning. They've drawn a line and he's crossed it too often. This explains the empty apartments, and his refusal to have any servants in view. He's just a wealthy, hedonistic, self-indulgent little
stronzo
who's now had his knuckles rapped too many times. Wondering if God might finally have finished being angry with me, and might possibly now be on my side, I try to look cold and determined, despite the fact that my heart is beating so violently it's making me feel ill. “You have nothing to worry about from me—if you help me,” I say. “If you help Carlo, the books will be burned. I promise you.” Another thought occurs to me, and I add an outright lie. “And I shall say nothing to anyone about the fact that I have not bled this month.”