The Marlowe Conspiracy (54 page)

I remembered the curious way he spoke to me earlier:
“there are things about this family you don’t know… things you should never know.”
What was he talking about? What things?

I pondered the matter further and felt that I did know at least this much: something troublesome was happening now, and I didn’t like it – I didn’t like it at all.

IV

The Search Party

G
olden hues of daylight filtered into the Sala dei Misteri as a pair of gentle hands shook me awake. I’d spent the entire night curled up in the chair waiting for Juan. The elderly shape of Panthasilea, my chief handmaid, now stooped over me. She had small brown eyes, gaunt cheeks, and grey hair in a tight bun. Like all of the palazzo servants, she was a Catalan, for my father trusted only his fellow countrymen rather than any Italians.

“It’s daylight, madonna,” she said, with her gravelly voice. “Time to rise.”

I groaned and stretched my arms, trying to regain the feeling in my hands. “Panthasilea, could you please fetch me something to eat? Maybe some cheese, a slice of Pecorino Romano?”

“Certainly, madonna.” Her mouth drew small. “I must remind you, though, it’s Lent. Today is Ash Wednesday, and before you do anything we must put you in a black dress. You can’t wear this costume any longer.”

I glimpsed out of the window. “What time did my brother return last night?”

“Cesare?”

“No, Juan.”

“Well, I don’t think he’s returned yet, madonna.”

The news unsettled me. With Panthasilea at my side, I hurried away to my bedchamber to change my clothes. She helped me slip into a new chemise of white cambric, a black silk underdress, and a raven overdress of thick taffeta that gathered under my bust. Almost before she could finish tying my sleeves, I left her behind and hustled off to Juan’s room.

Outside the door, I stopped and listened for any sound inside the bedchamber. I turned the door handle quietly, so I wouldn’t wake him, and peered inside. My face dropped. No one slept in the canopy bed. The sheets lay clean and smooth. I knew immediately what needed to be done and I rushed away to tell my father.

On arriving at my father’s suite, I was instructed to remain in the antechamber until Alexander was fully dressed. The hour was still early and my father wouldn’t see anyone without his formal attire. My hands worked impatiently on a handkerchief, tying it in knots while I waited. Nearby, some of Alexander’s courtesans were already clothed – as much as they ever wore clothes – and they currently engaged themselves in draping their bodies across a window seat. Fiammetta, the prettiest one, combed her long hazelnut hair and batted her eyelashes at me.

“Any news, Lucrezia?” she said in a chirpy tone. “You look weary today, your eyes have grey circles. Didn’t you get any sleep?”

“Something worries me this morning, that’s all.”

“Oh, no! I trust it’s nothing to do with the girls or me?” She dipped her head closer and whispered as if telling me a secret. “You’re not mad at us, are you – because of what we do? You know that your father never touches us. We just dance for him or sing, sometimes with our clothes on, sometimes not. Of course, when he gets excited–”

“Yes, that’s quite enough!” I said, holding up my hand. “Are there any scissors nearby?”

“Why?” she asked with a frown.

“I need to cut off my ears.”

Mercifully, before she could reply, the doors of the papal bedchamber creaked back on their hinges. I shot through into the room and left Fiammetta far behind.

Inside the bedchamber, Alexander stood by the fireplace while two papal gentleman tended to his clothes, brushing and flattening the velvet mozzetta cape around his shoulders. A violet stole hung around his shoulders and drooped loosely on his belly.

“Your visit’s somewhat earlier than usual, my child,” he said evenly.

I marched straight across the room toward him.

“Stop, stop!” He recoiled and gave a little twitch of his head. “What in the name of all goodness is that terrible scratching sound?” He stared down at my feet. “Are you wearing those slippers with the hard soles again, Lucrezia?”

“I don’t know.”

“Time and time again I tell you they make an appalling scratching noise on these floors. I’ll have to get you some new lambskin ones, soft and soundless. In the future, you must wear them any time you may be in my presence.”

“Yes,” I said, through clenched teeth. “Anyway, I come on a more important issue than my slippers. Juan didn’t return home last night and I’m worried. I think we should send out a search party.”

“Do you?” he said slowly. “Do you, indeed?” His eyes floated away from mine. “I don’t think we need to make such a decision just yet. At this juncture, it’d be poor work to harass the city of Rome with search parties, simply because Juan hasn’t slept in his own bed. Indeed, it’s likely that your brother is still at some house of ill-repute, as stated when he last spoke to you.”

“Still at a brothel? By this hour?”

“Yes, it’s possible that he has merely overslept at some poor establishment. He may not be willing to leave it now that daylight would reveal his affairs to the common people.”

“But–”

“I’m sure that he’ll return as soon as darkness falls.” He studied me and saw that I was still doubtful. “However, if he isn’t back at the palazzo by dusk, we’ll discuss what course of action will be appropriate. In the meantime, promise me that you’ll stop panicking and scratching the floors.”

I looked into his large, never-closing eyes. More than the content of his speech, I heard the smooth, relaxed and comforting harmonies of his voice. A sense of assurance washed over me and cleansed away most of my fears. Juan’s return seemed almost inevitable.

After the morning ceremonies of Ash Wednesday, I spent the next hours quietly reading my lessons in Latin and Greek. By noon, Juan still hadn’t returned. The time passed and my confidence dwindled further… one o’clock… two o’clock… still no sign of him anywhere.

With Panthasilea as my companion, I strolled out into the winter gardens of Città del Vaticano. We took a turn down mossy stairways and winding walks that snaked away from the rear of the palazzo. Cypress trees stood in giant columns along damp pathways and bosky terraces. Before returning to the palazzo, I noticed Cesare at the fringe of a distant lawn. He clutched a crossbow in his hand and shot at a practice target fifty yards away. I left Panthasilea and trailed my skirt across the wet grass to join him. I had a few questions to ask.

He heard my approach, but kept his eye on the target for another shot. His finger curled around the trigger. Another arrow struck into the target’s center and I patted my hands together.

“Don’t applaud,” he said, reloading the crossbow. “It wasn’t accurate.”

I squinted at the target. “Oh, yes, it missed dead-center by an entire hair’s breadth.”

He raised the bow again. The trigger clicked. The arrow sliced through the air and sunk into the absolute heart of the target. He turned to me proudly.

I refused to clap. “Sorry, but the moment has gone now, I’m not impressed anymore.”

He smiled and pulled another arrow from the quiver by his feet. Although he was Cardinal of Valencia, nothing in his appearance suggested the church. All the other cardinals now wore fuchsia satin cassocks for Lent, but he stood arrayed in a brown velvet doublet studded with rubies and pearls – the clothes of a prince.

“How long have you been out here?” I asked, giving a deliberate yawn.

“Since daybreak,” he replied. “You look tired.”

“Do I? Perhaps it’s because I waited all night for Juan to return. You know, he’s still not back yet.” I moved closer to him. “Was your sleep troubled, too? I thought I saw you in the courtyard last night?”

He didn’t answer and steadily reloaded the crossbow. I let the question hang in the air.

“Sorry if I disturbed you,” he muttered.

“Oh, no, you didn’t. I just saw you and wondered what you were doing, that’s all.”

“Looking for crossbow targets.”

“In the tower cellar? But wasn’t it too late for that? Why not send a servant down there at dawn?”

“I didn’t want to bother anyone.” He turned away and spent a long time focusing his sights on the target.

I wasn’t sure if I believed him. Why would he suddenly get up in the middle of the night and search around for a crossbow target? And for what reason would he be fully dressed at such a late hour? Perhaps he slept in his clothes that night? It was possible. One question, though, still nagged at me beyond all others.

“Did you go out anywhere interesting afterwards?” I asked casually.

He frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“No reason, only I thought I heard your spurs jangling. They awoke me.”

“I wasn’t wearing spurs.”

“How strange! I could have sworn that I heard–”

“No, I wasn’t wearing them,” he said sharply. “Now can I get back to my practice?”

I stood still as he fired another shot at the target. It missed the center by half a foot.

My worries intensified over Juan’s absence for the rest of the afternoon. By six o’clock, the sun faded upon the towers, cupolas, and campaniles of Rome and darkness finally crept into the streets. Inside the palazzo, I intruded upon a meeting between two cardinals and my father, and I informed him that Juan was still missing. He dismissed the officials instantly, so we could speak in private, and he summoned Cesare.

“It’s a difficult situation,” said Alexander gravely. “On the one hand, I have the citizens of Rome to consider. They will be alarmed when a search party of papal soldiers thunders through their peaceful neighborhoods and sleeping piazze, especially if Juan is soon discovered lazing at the bedpost of some courtesan. And yet, on the other hand, if the alarm is not false and Juan is in danger…”

Cesare stood silently, his back straight, his arms crossed so that the fabric of his doublet stretched tight around his muscled shoulders. I stood beside him anxiously.

“It’s all my fault,” I said. “I provoked the Orsini guard’s attention yesterday and caused the fight, and now Juan’s in danger because of me. You’ll send out a search party, won’t you? You must do something.”

Alexander stroked his eyebrow with the edge of his plump forefinger. He paced back and forth across the room, planting each step with slow, deliberate care. His pectoral cross swayed, shifting from side to side. He raised his head to Cesare.

“My son,” he said resolutely. “I’d like you to take a squad of soldiers from the barracks and lead a search for your brother.”

“Me?” replied Cesare.

“Yes, I’d like you to do it. It would be appropriate in light of the circumstances… or am I wrong in thinking that you can take care of such an important matter?”

I watched as yet another strange moment occurred between them, just as it had the night before in the Sala dei Misteri. Cesare drew himself up tall and his eyes gleamed. Alexander waited for his response, his hands trembling slightly at the mysterious tension passing through the room.

I touched Cesare on the shoulder. “Do it for me, brother. I beg you.”

He looked at me hesitantly, then span on his heel, and strode toward the door.

“If I must!” he called back hotly.

With a gang of soldiers, Cesare soon rode out of Città del Vaticano and launched into the rioni of Rome. While I awaited the result of their search, I decided to visit the tomb of St. Peter and pray for Juan’s safe return.

Amid a forest of columns, Panthasilea and I threaded through the hordes of pilgrims now crammed inside the world’s largest church, the Basilica di San Pietro. Woolen cloaks, bony limbs, and tapping canes clustered around us as we moved. In the center of all the marble shrines, we finally jostled over to a space at one of the pews. From my seat, I looked at the gold cross above the grand raised tomb of St. Peter. Focusing my thoughts, I prayed for Juan, quietly reciting the Ave Maria many times over:

“
Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”

As Panthasilea and I departed the Basilica, we halted outside at the steps leading down to Piazza San Pietro. I breathed-in the cool night air, the aroma of cooked chestnuts, roasted ceci beans, figs, and shellfish wafting up from the busy stalls of the piazza. Everywhere little kiosks sold cheap rosaries to pilgrims, promising a bargain.

Panthasilea grabbed my arm and pointed across the piazza. “Look, madonna! Your brother has returned already.”

My eyes jumped over to the Ponte Sant’Angelo. Beneath the gallows ranged along the bridge, Cesare galloped across swiftly, whipping his horse, spurring it faster. I’d never seen him ride so hastily. Twenty soldiers struggled to keep pace behind him. I had expected to find Juan among their numbers, yet he was still not in sight.