The Scarlet Contessa (23 page)

Caterina waved his words away, and simpered. “Small cost for such enormous pleasure.”

The conversation that followed was painfully vapid. I directed my face toward the carpet and studied the exotic Moorish pattern there until the two lovers began to grope each other, at which point I murmured a request to be dismissed.

To my surprise, the middle-aged servant was waiting for me just outside the door. “Come,” she said pleasantly. “There is cool watered wine and refreshments waiting for you.”

She led me across the corridor, to a sitting room where an open window overlooked a view of a landscaped garden. She gestured. “Sit. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to hear your lady when she calls.”

I settled into a red satin chair next to a table that held a carafe of watered wine, an empty goblet, and a tray of pastries and figs; the instant I did, a lad hurried into the room, picked up a large feather fan, and began to wave it solemnly. I felt quite guilty—it did not seem right that I should enjoy being party to such a wicked venture—but the day was hot and the fan directed the breeze to me so nicely that I did not tell the boy to leave. Familiarity with crime, however, soon eases guilt, and by the fifth day, I had not only become comfortable at the little palazzo in the Spanish neighborhood, but had also come to enjoy the excellent wine served there, as well as the little dishes doña Maria, the greeter, brought me.

Caterina’s proclivity for the sexual act shocked me; her temper was beastly on Sundays, the one day she did not visit the little palazzo, and remarkably agreeable the rest of the week. And her visits with Gerard, during the month Girolamo was gone, grew progressively longer.

On the seventh visit to the palazzo, Caterina spent an additional hour in the bedchamber with Gerard beyond our allotted time. I was in the sitting room, reading one of the books I had discovered upon a shelf—and thinking of Luca, who had accompanied the count to Faenza—when I heard doña Maria greet someone entering through the front door downstairs.

A man answered her, and a brief exchange followed. I could make out the voices but not the gist. His arrival alarmed me, especially when I heard heavy footfalls on the stairs. The open door to the sitting room was only a few paces from the landing, so I signaled for my little fan-wielder to stop and retreat to a corner while I hid behind the half-ajar door.

I peered through the crack and watched as Rodrigo Borgia, in his scarlet robes and skullcap, ascended the stairs and made his way down the hall. Directly across from my hiding place, only a few paces from me, he paused at the closed door to Gerard and Caterina’s chamber, and inclined his ear toward the lovers’ muffled groans of pleasure.

I feared he would open the door to their borrowed bedchamber; instead, he grinned and nodded in approval, and continued down the corridor. When I heard a door farther down the hallway open and close, I peered out cautiously; the way was clear.

I hurried across the corridor to the lovers’ chamber and rapped softly on the wooden door. No reply came, so I cracked open the door and stepped quickly inside, my gaze averted—but not enough to escape a glimpse of a naked Caterina kneeling on all fours on the edge of the bed, her shins hanging free, and an equally unclad Gerard standing on the floor just behind her, fully erect and parting her flesh in anticipation of entry.

“Forgive me, Madonna, forgive me, Monsieur,” I hissed. “Rodrigo Borgia has come. He is in a room down the hall. We must leave at once before he discovers you.”

Gerard backed away and covered himself with his chemise. “Good God!” he exclaimed, then caught himself and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I should have taken note of the hour.” He turned his bare back to me and balanced on one foot as he pushed the other into his gathered leggings.

Displeased, the contessa whispered to him, “What is Borgia doing here?”

“He owns this house. I received permission to use it at midday, when it is always vacant, from a dear friend of his. He has many friends who use this place when they desire privacy.” Gerard pulled on his chemise, tunic, and boots with practiced speed as he spoke. “I of course told no one the name of the lady I was bringing here.”

Once he had finished dressing, he moved swiftly to take Caterina’s hand and kiss it. “Forgive me, my darling, but I must go; it is better that I not be seen with you. I suggest you leave at once, and quietly.”

Caterina opened her mouth to reply, but Gerard dropped her hand and darted out of the chamber and down the stairs.

I gathered up all of Caterina’s clothing and stuffed her into it.

The corridor was clear. I signaled to her, and preceded her out into the hall. She had just made it into the doorway when one of her slippers came loose; she paused to press one hand against the jamb and adjust the slipper with the other.

I was already on the landing, and glanced back at her just as she stepped into the hallway. At the same instant, several rooms behind her, a door opened, and Cardinal Borgia emerged in a long undershirt and mulberry and yellow leggings.

“But what fair lady is this?” he called after her. “As your host, I must welcome you!”

Caterina froze. We stared at each other for an instant, uncertain whether to bolt or stand fast. My lady’s expression transformed from one of anxiety to one of dignified repose. She turned to face Borgia, and bowed shallowly from her shoulders.

“Your Holiness,” she said sweetly.

Borgia’s lips parted in amazement; the gesture transformed into a great wolfish grin. “Why, Your Illustrious Highness! What a delightful surprise to see you again!”

“And you,” Caterina answered. “But I am late and must go.”

She took a step toward the staircase, but Borgia caught her arm.

“Ah, my lovely Madonna Caterina,” he said, still showing his teeth. “Do not leave just yet. Your husband is away; who will notice if you are late returning home?”

Caterina remained calm. “I have obligations. Unhand me, please.”

Borgia’s grip tightened. “Women are never so beautiful as they are after satisfying lovemaking,” he murmured. “And Caterina, you are the most beautiful of all. I did not take offense at your earlier rejection, nor press my cause because you are so young—and, I thought, sheltered and inexperienced, but I see now that is not the case. I will give you the world, my darling, if only you would grant me some small favors. . . .”

He stroked her cheek; she turned it brusquely away, and he laughed softly.

“Am I wrong in believing you are much like me?” he asked. “Practical and aware that life is too short to deny oneself pleasure? More awaits you, Madonna. Come to my chamber”—he gestured behind him at the open door to his room—“and see what a far more experienced man can do for you. Your Frenchman is a callow youth, so eager in satisfying his own desires that he does not know how to lead a woman to the brink of ecstasy and keep her there for hours. Besides, someone else is coming to join me, one who would dearly appreciate your company. I can promise you an afternoon you will never forget.”

Caterina lifted her free arm and slapped him full across the face.

A murderous blaze flared in his eyes, then dimmed. “Boldness becomes you,” he said approvingly. “Without it, you would be just another pretty trinket, but I am that rare beast who admires strength in a woman.”

To prove it, he pressed her to him for a lingering kiss intended to impress her with his finesse. Caterina pounded his chest with her fists, and kicked his legs, but he was the stronger. When he was satisfied, he pulled back, amused, and held her at arm’s length to study her reaction.

Caterina’s features were contorted by hate as she spat into the cardinal’s eyes. Borgia wiped them on his sleeve as Caterina said, her voice trembling with rage, “You are old and disgusting and stink of garlic. Let me go.”

Borgia’s smile was gone now as he caught both her arms. “I may be older, Caterina, but I am far wealthier than even your Girolamo, and twice as powerful. He is too foolish and hotheaded to live very long. I can give you more than he could ever hope to.”

“I could never love you,” Caterina sneered.

“That’s altogether beside the point, my dear.” A threatening note crept into Borgia’s tone. “I would think that you would be more concerned about the fact that I might reveal your affair to your husband.” He glanced pointedly at her swollen lip. “I have come to know Girolamo rather well; it seems you have noticed, too, that his impetuous temper often leads him to violence. I would hate to see what he might do should he learn his young wife has been unfaithful.”

Seething, Caterina pulled away with a jerk; this time, Borgia let her go.

“And I will tell my husband that
you
made this tryst possible—and that you have tried repeatedly to seduce me!”

He laughed scathingly. “Girolamo strikes first and asks questions later. I doubt your pretty mouth would be able to form the words after the initial blow. I doubt, in fact, that you would live long enough to tell him anything about me. Or that your Frenchman would survive such a revelation.”

“You are quite right,” Caterina replied hotly. “Therefore,
I
will go first to my husband and tearfully confess to him that
you
are my lover, and that you first took me by force in your pleasure garden, using your drugged wine. I don’t doubt that Girolamo has heard of it. I will go to him begging for his protection and forgiveness, saying that I never wanted to become involved in the first place, and am overwhelmed by shame—and that I expect the worst sort of retaliation from you, a man who thinks nothing of corrupting beautiful young women. I may be forced to endure a beating, but I will not lose my property or my position, as you well may.

“Perhaps, before my husband returns home, I might make my confession to Pope Sixtus, who is especially fond of me and weakens at the sight of a woman’s tears. Good day, Your Holiness.” Caterina gathered her skirts, turned her back to him, and nodded for me to head down the stairs.

In the instant before I turned, I caught a glimpse of the cardinal’s expression as he watched Caterina leave. His simmering anger had vanished; in its place was a look of fascination, determination, and total infatuation.

As we hurried down, he called after us, his tone oddly lighthearted.

“You can always change your mind. I understand that your husband will not be returning from Faenza for some weeks.”

By the time we reached the entryway, doña Maria was just opening the front door. As I dashed over the threshold, I nearly collided with a pretty, green-eyed brunette—the French ambassador’s wife—who was trying to enter. She stepped back to let us pass, and at the sight of the somewhat disheveled Caterina, let go a short laugh of astonishment.

“Your Illustriousness!” she exclaimed, with a sly, evilly delighted grin.

“Your Grace,” I muttered beneath my breath.

Caterina swept past her without a word. Together we made haste to the carriage.

Chapter Seventeen

Caterina refused to stop seeing her French lover; on four occasions, she returned to Borgia’s secret palazzo—always at the stroke of midday, when it was the Spanish cardinal’s custom to give Pope Sixtus a daily report on Church affairs while the two dined together. She never again made the mistake of staying at the palazzo more than an hour. On other occasions, she rode with Gerard to empty meadows or forests on the edge of the city. I would leave her and her lover in the carriage, and, with the blushing driver, walk far enough away that we could not hear the pair’s impassioned cries as the carriage rocked.

In the meantime, Caterina informed her lover of Borgia’s unwanted attentions, but Gerard reacted with insufficient outrage, instead warning her to take care “not to insult the cardinal unnecessarily, for it is not good to be his enemy.” Although Gerard’s cowardice disgusted her, she did not let her opinion of his character intrude upon her enjoyment of his physical attributes.

I scolded Caterina constantly; she was playing with not just her reputation, but with her life. I gathered my courage and told her that once Girolamo returned home, I would no longer go with her to meet Gerard.

For that, she slapped me, but I held my ground. It was during this time that a letter arrived addressed to the contessa and bearing Borgia’s seal. Caterina read it aloud to me with a good deal of triumph and sarcasm:

Your Most Illustrious Highness,

I perceive in you great bravery, intelligence, and determination. To me, such qualities are as appealing as physical beauty, which of course you also possess to an infinite degree.

Forgive me; I was wrong to treat you so rudely. You are clearly worthy of respect. Although you are still very young, I realize now that, were you a man, you would be as great and formidable a ruler as your father, the Duke of Milan.

Alas, Nature has made you a woman—a tragedy for you, but good fortune for men such as me, who perceive that females of strong character and wit are to be valued and encouraged to utilize their talents. What a shame that I am wed to Mother Church, and you to another—for were we to join forces, all of Italy would be ours for the taking.

Consider that, and put aside your pretty Frenchman; he is a witless boy, and will amount to nothing. I, however, promise you unimaginable wealth and power. I stand ever ready to become

Your servant,

Rodrigo Llançol y Borgia

When she had finished reading, Caterina laughed until her face was flushed. I, however, remained solemn as I contemplated what the cardinal had written.

“Unbelievable,” I said at last. “He has trusted you with an unencrypted letter, signed by his own hand. You could easily shame him with this.”

Caterina gave an indignant little snort. “Only if I wanted to implicate myself. See how he says here, ‘Put aside your pretty Frenchman.’ I can hardly show this to Girolamo.”

I nodded. “But he is apologizing. I saw the look on his face as we were leaving. Madonna, he is in love with you.”

She made a noise of pure disgust. “That is
his
misfortune. I would rather join a nunnery than make love to him. He is old and oily.”

“He’s only ten years older than Girolamo,” I countered. “Although I agree, the thought is disgusting. Still . . . be careful not to insult him, Madonna. He is too wily and knows too much.”

The Spanish cardinal was indeed wily. The very next day, a messenger wearing the Borgia livery arrived. He knelt as he presented Her Illustriousness with a long rectangular box, which contained six long strands of perfect pearls.

Please accept this gift of friendship,
Borgia had written,
although it cannot do justice to your fair skin. Forgive my impertinence, and think of me kindly.

Caterina gave a small, self-satisfied smile at the sight of the jewels, then dictated a reply to the messenger. “Thank His Holiness for the gift,” she said. “But I must send it back. Tell him that my husband gave me a trunkful of pearls for a wedding gift. I have no need of more.”

The following day, another gift arrived from the same messenger: a pair of solid gold candlesticks, with a note in the cardinal’s hand comparing them to Caterina’s shining hair. The contessa rejected them as well.

On the third day, Borgia sent a large mirror in an ornate silver frame. At that point, Caterina sat and dictated a letter to me.

You were right,
she said,
that I am as brave as any man. And I must tell you to quit wasting your time, as I care nothing for trinkets or flattery. Far from it. My greatest wish in this life is to become a soldier. Like my father, I have a head for military strategy, and the fearlessness to implement it. In truth, I would make a far better captain of the papal army than my husband. Politics, power, war—these are things that pique my interest, not gowns or jewels.

“There,” she said triumphantly as the deflated messenger departed to return yet another gift to his lovelorn master. “That should give him pause.”

On the fourth day—and the fifth, sixth, and seventh—no message from Borgia was forthcoming. I believed that he had finally been discouraged or was plotting revenge.

Then, on the eighth day, when the contessa and I returned home from another midday rendezvous with Gerard, the messenger in Borgia livery was waiting for us. This time, when Caterina swept imperiously into her reception chamber, the messenger was down on one knee, his head bowed, his arms outstretched as if pleading.

Across his open palms lay an unsheathed halberd.

“Your Illustrious Highness,” the messenger said timidly, not daring to lift his head. “His Holiness wishes to convey that this is made of Toledo steel. The hilt is pure gold. He says, ‘To the fearless wife of the captain of the papal army: may all her enemies be defeated.’”

It was a lovely shining creation, polished to a dazzling gleam. The blade was slender but deadly; the golden hilt was cruciform, and the pommel an open sphere of ornate gold filigree.

Caterina took it reverently from the messenger’s hands and hoisted it easily, despite its heft; it was shorter than a man’s sword, as though it had been made expressly for her. She lunged and slashed the air with it, then, grinning, pointed it at me.

Her gaze was still on me as she spoke to the messenger. “Is there a sheath for it?”

“Yes, Your Illustriousness.” Still kneeling, he gestured at the finely tooled leather sheath on the floor in front of him, threaded onto a thick belt sized for a woman’s hips.

“Excellent,” Caterina said, slowly tilting the blade from side to side to watch the light glint off the steel. “Tell your master that I accept this gift in the spirit of friendship, and thank him for it.”

The servant bowed his head, rose, and backed out of the room.

When he was gone, I scowled in disapproval. “Do not think for a moment, Madonna, that he has only friendship in mind. I don’t trust him.”

Caterina lunged forward, striking at an imaginary foe with remarkable grace. “Nor do I,” she said, and swung the blade backhandedly. “Do you think I can’t protect myself from the likes of him? You underestimate me, Dea.”

She pivoted on her heel, skirts swirling, to attack the opposite direction with vigor.

“I hope you are right,” I said. But the truth was that I knew that, as clever as my lady was, she was no match for Rodrigo Borgia.

Nonetheless, Caterina recruited one of Girolamo’s drill instructors to sharpen her skill with the sword, and practiced diligently with the weapon every day.

Eventually, Count Girolamo returned home from his journey and for two nights demanded the nuptial company of his reluctant wife.

The third day after his return was the pope’s birthday. Custom demanded that His Holiness appear outside Saint Peter’s to address the crowd gathered in the square; however, Sixtus’s health allowed him only to wave at the cheering throngs for a few moments before being carried on a litter back to his apartments. Caterina, Girolamo, and Cardinal della Rovere joined him on the dais, and della Rovere spoke after His Holiness had departed; unfortunately, those gathered were too impatient to listen to anyone other than the pope himself, and della Rovere’s words were drowned out by the sound of his audience departing.

I stood just in front of the platform, straining out of courtesy to listen to the cardinal’s exaggerated praise of his kinsman, when my eye caught movement in the periphery of my vision. I inclined my head toward it, and saw the dark-haired scribe, Luca, with a politely attentive expression frozen on his face.

I almost turned away quickly; I was still embarrassed over my distrustful behavior toward Ser Luca, and expected that he was still angry with me. Yet when my unwilling gaze accidentally caught his, he smiled brilliantly at me before turning his attention again to the unfortunate speaker.

I smiled back, with great relief.

That day, Girolamo and the contessa held a feast for dozens of cardinals and other notables at the palazzo, as Sixtus was feeling unwell and did not wish to entertain at the Vatican. It was by far the most lavish banquet ever prepared at the Palazzo Riario; two enormous tables were brought in to seat a hundred diners. Among them were Cardinal Borgia and Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere, who, though he still despised his cousin Girolamo, came for Caterina’s sake. I stood behind Caterina, supervising her cupbearer and making sure that della Rovere received the special attention due a guest of honor.

Despite the mounting heat, the banquet dragged on for hours, until everyone was sweating and exhausted, including Caterina, who grew suddenly pale before the final course was brought, even though one of the little slave boys was fanning her furiously. By the time I was at her side, she had pushed herself from the table and, without a single word, hurried out of the stuffy chamber.

By the time she made her way down the corridor to the stairs leading up to her apartments—with me following a step behind—she was overcome. Pressing one hand to her stomach and the other against the wall, she hunched over and retched up the contents of the feast, which splattered against the white marble landing.

I caught her elbow and helped ease her down onto the first stairs, where she caught the cool stone railing and pressed her forehead to it, her eyes closed.

“Madonna, tell me how you feel.” I pressed my hand to her damp forehead. It was warm from the heat, but not feverish.

She groaned without opening her eyes. “Don’t make me talk,” she murmured. “Let me just sit. . . .”

The effort of speaking proved too much, and another wave of nausea overtook her. This time, she vomited mostly foamy yellow bile before resting her head again. We sat there until Caterina grew steady enough to go up to her bedchamber. I sent one of the maids down to the banquet hall to apologize to the guests, while another brought a pitcher of cold water and a soft cloth, which I dampened and pressed to my lady’s forehead.

An hour later, Caterina was still weak but much improved, and insisted I return to the banquet chamber to make sure Cardinal della Rovere was properly looked after. I did so, only to discover that he and almost all the other guests had left immediately after the final course. Only a few lingered, making conversation with their sated, drowsy host. As was common in summer, plague and a deadly fever were making their way through the poorer quarters of the city, and those remaining in Rome panicked easily when reminded of the fact.

I curtsied to Count Girolamo and announced that his wife was recovering quickly, that she had only been stricken by the heat because of her heavy gown. He accepted this with distracted relief.

I returned to my mistress, who was sitting up in her bed and hungry; I sat with her while she ate her fill of plain broth and bread. Soon afterward she fell soundly asleep. I would have remained with her, but by then one of the servants, a kindly old nurse, promised to watch over Caterina, and urged me to join the rest of the house staff in the banquet chamber; now that the guests had gone, the dining chamber was open to the household staff so that we could consume the remainders of the feast.

By the time I arrived in the chamber again, the room was crowded and a queue had formed of polite but insistent staff members and servants, all waiting to get their share of the spoils, which were being doled out by the cooks. I was obliged to wait my turn. Others, who had already sat down at the cleared banquet tables, were eating their fill; still others had finished, and were dancing to the tune played by lutists and pipers.

I intended to get my plate and cup and return to the contessa’s apartments to dine in private, but as I stood in line, watching the dancers, someone stepped in front of me to block my view.

The scribe Luca held a kitchen tray in his hands, bearing two heaped plates, two finger towels, two goblets, and a carafe of wine. He wore his dark silver brocade tunic with the lavender silk sleeves; an ink smudge adorned the very tip of his prominent nose, a fact of which he was charmingly unaware. The summer humidity had coaxed a few half-formed ringlets from his blue-black waves, and left the plume of the quill tucked behind his right ear bedraggled. His neatly trimmed beard was speckled with what appeared to be breadcrumbs.

I stared up, startled, at the dark gray eyes so close to the level of my own; they revealed no intimacy, no recognition, merely the polite detachment of a friendly stranger.

“Madonna,” he said loudly, in order to be heard over the music, conversation, and clatter of plates. “I have taken enough food for two, in case I discovered a friend with whom I wished to sup. Would you do me the honor?”

“Of course, sir.” My swift, affirmative reply astonished me. “Lead the way.”

He took me to a corner of the banquet table farthest from the musicians and the dancing, and chose a spot a few chairs distant on either side from the other chattering diners.

“I am so glad,” I said more softly as I sat and he set my cup and plate before me, “that you are not still angry at me. I want to apologize for my stupidity, my thoughtlessness.”