The Rossetti Letter (v5) (15 page)

“But is he a good man?”

“You perhaps know better than I.” He smiled ruefully. “Now that I have shared such private beliefs, I am completely in your power.”

“You have no reason to distrust me.”

“I have no reason to trust you, either.”

“Need I remind you that you arrived in the middle of the night with a letter for the Spanish ambassador, a letter you could not freely take to his door. By this I can surmise that either you or this letter is unwelcome in Venice, and yet I have not given you up. Do not mistake my tolerance for naiveté. Just tell me—what secret business does Ossuna have with the marquis? Is he a spy?”

“You go too far.” Antonio angrily turned away and stamped down the stairs.

“Is he a spy?” Alessandra called after his retreating figure, but she got no answer.

Alessandra was seated at her writing desk when Antonio entered the parlor the next morning. He stopped in the center of the room. “I have no wish to disturb you if you are busy.”

“On the contrary, I’m just finishing a letter to my cousin in Padua.” They had not spoken since their argument of the night before and the air between them was strained. “Please, sit down.”

Antonio perched on the chair near the fire. He still looked pale, and as if he’d had little sleep. “You will be happy to know that soon I will be on my way back to Naples.”

“I agree it is best.” Alessandra paused and looked away before meeting his eyes again. “You said you wanted to understand my character. I do not wish you to leave thinking I am without morality, or without any religious feeling. But even when I was young, I knew that I had not those raptures that others professed to feel during Mass. It’s not that I had a competing philosophy; I was simply unmoved. The singing, the incense, the chanting meant little to me. I have always preferred the natural treasures of this world to the presumed rewards of the next. When I look at a seashell, or a rosebud, or the intricate veins of a leaf and see the order and the patterns of nature, I have a sense of my soul being taken and lifted by God, the same feeling that my friends claimed was inspired by the holy mysteries. Does that seem strange to you?”

Antonio shook his head. “I have often felt such things myself, yet I have never been able to put it into words.”

“My father used to say that contact with many creeds must dilute belief in just one. Perhaps it is that which contributes to my lack of Christian fervor, but I cannot regret it. If I were a man, I would be a sailing man, and travel to distant ports, and learn many strange customs.”

“A sailor? You?”

She smiled. “Not just a sailor—a pirate.”

“A pirate!”

“Yes.” She flourished her quill like a sword and pointed it at his throat, grinning mischievously. “I’d take my treasure off men like you—dainty, lily-livered dogs who faint from a little fever…”

Antonio sprang toward her, tore the feather from her hands, and threatened her in turn. Laughing, Alessandra led him on a merry chase through the parlor, until Antonio caught her and lightly imprisoned her between his two outstretched arms, his palms firmly planted against the wall. Panting and smiling, she looked up into his face. All at once she did not feel like laughing anymore. For a moment, as their lips slowly moved closer together, neither seemed to be breathing at all.

Bianca rushed in and curtsied nervously. “The marquis of Bedmar is arrived, my lady,” she said, her eyes darting between Alessandra and Antonio as they quickly stepped away from each other and prepared themselves to receive him.

14 November 1617

B
EDMAR TIPPED
O
SSUNA’S
missive toward the hazy light from Alessandra’s parlor windows and read it again.
Damn and blast.
The letter brought him nothing but trouble.

…surprise is one of the greatest weapons in our arsenal and to delay any longer than necessary could mean defeat. I will have new ships ready to launch at the end of April; the fleet could reach Venice before Ascension Day. Indeed, there seems no better time…

He skimmed over the remainder:
no more delays…fully prepared…ready to strike…
it was full of the saber rattling so typical of the duke. And foolhardy, as well—it left them only six months to prepare for an all-out attack.

Bedmar wondered if the count of Segovia’s regiments, still fighting in the Netherlands, would be able to get to Venice in such a short time; in all his calculations their experienced support was an essential element of success.
Mother of Christ, six months!
As usual, the duke had asked the impossible; but the marquis had managed to achieve the impossible before. And damn if he would show his displeasure in front of Utrillo-Navarre.

The young viscount stood nearby as Bedmar read Ossuna’s letter and mulled over his reply. The message, the marquis reflected, was not entirely contained within the text. Antonio Perez was an unusual choice for a messenger, but Bedmar knew better than to let on that he was aware of this. When he had first entered Signorina Rossetti’s house and seen the viscount there, his eyes, well trained to conceal his thoughts, had fleetingly betrayed his surprise.

Only once before, at Ossuna’s palace in Naples, had Bedmar been face-to-face with the duke’s most trusted and lethal assassin, whose swordsmanship was known throughout Italy and Spain. Utrillo-Navarre was still young, but Bedmar could see a bit of his father, the old viscount, in the boy’s tall, solid form and confident expression. Now
there
was a man in the grand old tradition—they’d once crossed swords, fought until neither could stand, then called it a deuce and gone away friends. The marquis had been sorry when he’d heard of his passing. But the son? It was unlikely that a similar camaraderie would develop, given the circumstances.

Utrillo-Navarre’s presence in Venice brought everything into question; Bedmar had recognized at once the threat he embodied. First, to Alessandra; Ossuna had more than once made it clear that he thought her a danger to their security. Second, to himself. Ossuna had managed to bring Antonio Perez into Venice unnoticed.
Next time,
the duke seemed to be warning him,
even you won’t know that he is there.

What was behind the duke’s sudden need to launch their assault a full two months ahead of the date on which they’d earlier agreed? It made no sense to strike before Bedmar could assemble all his troops—unless the duke planned to strike at him as well.

It was no secret that Ossuna was unpopular in Naples. Did he have designs on the viceroyalty of Venice, Bedmar’s intended post after the victory? The marquis stole a glance at Perez. Perhaps the duke’s new scheme was that Bedmar would not survive the battle—and no doubt Utrillo-Navarre would be close at hand to make certain of it.

If Ossuna wanted to play the blackguard, he would be the one to lose, Bedmar thought darkly. The duke’s warning was meaningless to him, and irritating as well. It would have to be answered in just the right manner, and in a way that Ossuna would never expect. At once Bedmar hit on the perfect reply, a reply that had begun to take shape as soon as he’d seen Perez, and sat down at the writing desk.

Brilliant, Bedmar thought, and signed his name with a flourish. In his own way, Bedmar was letting the duke know that he was fully aware of his black intent, yet was unafraid. Ossuna would certainly take the bait, believing that his assassin could carry out his orders successfully in spite of Bedmar’s foreknowledge. But the marquis had many times discovered that youth and strength were no match for experience and cunning. Bedmar folded the letter and sealed it.

“I wish you good journey,” he said. “My gondolier waits below. He’ll take you to a small boat at the end of the island; from there you will be rowed to a ship anchored at Malamocco. If need be, let Captain de Braga speak for you. Don’t say a word until you’re safely at sea.”

“Your Excellency.” Antonio bowed. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

“As do I,” Bedmar replied.

So that’s how it will be, Alessandra thought. She stood at her bedroom window, looking out at the lagoon, at the Rio di San Giuseppe that flowed along the east side of the house, and at the fallow garden below. In the canal, Bedmar’s empty gondola was tied to a red-and-white-striped post next to stone steps that rose from beneath the water’s surface and led to the garden gate. Any moment now the viscount would appear, progressing from the back door along a curving path of stepping stones, then out through the gate and into the waiting gondola. She supposed that he and Bedmar had not much more to say after she had taken her leave of them.

Not a word, not even a meaningful glance did he leave her with. She had come into the parlor as Bedmar handed his reply to the viscount, then threw Ossuna’s letter onto the fire. Utrillo-Navarre had said nothing to her, except to ask that his cape be brought to him. Then he’d made a slight, formal bow, not even meeting her eyes, although she suspected that if he had, she would have found no sentiment there.

She’d excused herself and gone up to her room, intending to read or to write in her journal. But once she’d come upstairs, she had done neither of those things. Instead, she’d been drawn to the window, the one at the very corner of the room, the one with the best view of the gondola that would take him away.

Now she reproached herself, because of course there hadn’t been any true intimacy between them. They’d talked a bit, was all, and had seldom agreed. Perhaps his seeming charm was due to circumstance. He’d been dependent on her protection, but now that he was not, he no longer needed to keep up the pretense of an amiable nature. She decided she should not give him the pleasure of knowing she was watching him depart, but still she could not pull herself away from the window.

The fire in the hearth sizzled and popped, and Alessandra strained against her dress. The best brocade in the city and still the fabric chafed. The room was too warm, in fact it was stifling, she noted with irritation. It was Bianca’s doing, always insisting that Nico stack the grate with so much wood. Always worried she would get a chill, always hovering, always fussing. For a moment, Alessandra inwardly railed against Bianca’s solicitude, as unfair as she knew it was for her to do so. She only wished that…she didn’t even know what she wished. She felt a longing for something, but it was a mute longing, inexpressible. To be free of it, she thought, and instantly mocked herself: to be free of what?
To be free of this dress, for a start.
She moved closer to the window, pressed her fingers to it. Moist, cold air seeped through the mullions with a faint keening whistle. The glass felt like ice. She rested her forehead against it and felt some relief.

Although it was not raining, the sky was filled with gray, roiling clouds. Even at midmorning, Alessandra could sense the night coming on, and with it another storm. For the moment, everything felt timeless and still, as if under this somber light the world had stopped turning. In her view, nothing moved save for the flight of a solitary seabird and the constant, shallow rippling of the water. It was as quiet as a day of mourning. She heard the crackling of the fire at the opposite end of the room, and vague noises from downstairs: indistinct, low-pitched male voices, the dull thump of heavy boots across creaking floorboards. In the distance, carried along on the thin stream of air blowing between the windowpanes, came the muffled toll of a church bell.
Sailors panic if they hear bells while at sea,
her father had once told her.
They believe it a bad omen.
She wondered how it must feel to be on the deck of a heaving ship, far out to sea, with nothing but wind, and sea spray, and the pounding waves as companions. She briefly closed her eyes and tried to imagine the freedom of it: the sheer, incredible freedom of it.

Paolo, Bedmar’s gondolier, appeared at the side of the gondola—he must have walked along the
fondamenta
from the kitchen, where he’d been waiting—and boarded the boat. Utrillo-Navarre emerged in the garden a moment later. The gondola’s
felze
had been removed, and Alessandra could see him plainly as he sat down, but he faced the lagoon, and she could not see his expression. He wrapped his cape tighter, as if he were cold.

Paolo untied the rope that moored the boat, then coiled it and placed it behind the gondola seat. Before he took up the oar, he glanced up to where Alessandra stood. It was as if he’d known exactly where to look, had known that her solemn face would be framed by that particular window. She had thought the viscount would be the one making the backward glance, but he stared resolutely ahead.

Paolo looked up at her with a sober, unwavering expression. He was gaunt, with dark hair and large eyes, a young man of twenty-one. He was often around, especially when Bedmar was away. Whenever the marquis was gone from Venice, Paolo made himself available to Nico and Bianca; he rowed Alessandra’s gondola for them, brought melons and fresh fish from the markets, carried in the heavy kegs of wine that arrived by cargo boat. They rewarded him with a few coins now and then, as was proper.

A few weeks before, she had unexpectedly found Paolo in the spare bedchamber, the one in which Antonio had just stayed. As she’d walked up the stairs, she’d noticed that the door was slightly ajar. A glimmering candle shone softly within.

She had pushed the door open and discovered Paolo standing next to her drawing table. Clearly she had startled him, as he had turned suddenly to face her, at the same time concealing something behind his back. He was silent, of course, but his expression betrayed his guilt.

“What are you doing here?” She did not expect a reply, but the question had been prompted by anger. Paolo was welcome in the kitchen, but he had no leave to be wandering about her house. She moved closer. “What do you have in your hands?”

Paolo had stood very still, his eyes trained upon her, apparently without fear. It occurred to her that he might not know that the consequences for stealing were severe. She glanced over to her curio cabinet, but the room was too dark to see if anything was missing from it. What would have caught his fancy? “Give back what you have taken and you can go. I won’t tell anyone,” she offered, holding out her hand.

He looked pained at her words, but slowly brought his hands from behind his back and held out a small square of paper. On it was a sketch of a seashell, one that at first she took for her own. Alessandra held the paper closer to the candlelight and saw that it was not her drawing. Every detail of the nautilus was perfectly rendered, with a clarity and precision she had never seen before, and yet it was more than an objective view: the essence of the shell had been captured as well.

“Did you draw this?” she asked.

Paolo nodded.

“Just now?”

Another nod.

“It’s beautiful. You have a rare talent.”

He made no response, just kept his steady eyes locked upon hers. “But you do know that you are not allowed to be in this room, or to take my things?” Alessandra spoke gently, as she was not sure of the depth of his understanding. She held out the drawing. “You may keep this, though.”

“I d-don’t w-want it,” he said. “I d-drew it for you.”

She’d been surprised to hear Paolo speak; hadn’t the marquis said that he was mute? Alessandra wondered why the gondolier allowed the ambassador to think he was incapable of speech. Was Paolo embarrassed by his stutter, or did he have another, more sinister, reason for feigning silence?

Now, as Paolo looked up at the window, it occurred to her that he’d been watching her for days, perhaps weeks. But he soon turned away. He pushed the gondola away from the canal bank, and his steady rowing quickly brought it into the open lagoon, where it veered east, toward the point. As the boat bobbed over the small, rippling waves, traveling farther and farther away, Alessandra waited for Antonio Perez to turn around and look at her one last time, but he never did.