To my relief, the contessa was still sleeping soundly when I arrived, and did not stir as I undressed and took my place beside her in the bed. For hours, I lay happily awake, recalling again and again Luca’s words about my brother failing to describe my virtues adequately.
Morning, however, brought renewed worry. I woke to the sound of Her Illustriousness heaving. She stood beside the bed in her nightgown, and as I leapt up and hurried round to her, she clutched the thick bedpost, slid slowly down onto her haunches, and closed her eyes. She was frighteningly pale.
“Let me die,” she murmured crossly as I hovered, pelting her with inane questions. “Just go away. . . .”
I did, but brought back towels and the basin. I cleaned up the small mess and was dabbing her white brow with cool water when she slowly opened her eyes again.
“Bread,” she said with abrupt certainty. “Bring me some plain bread, and some salt. I’m so queasy I could die, but if I had something in my stomach, I know I’d feel better.”
I looked down at her with dread and tentative joy.
“Madonna,” I asked, “when did your monthly bleed last come?”
Caterina was pregnant, of course, and unlike me, completely unconcerned about the child’s paternity.
“Girolamo’s a halfwit,” she said. “He’ll never notice if the child doesn’t look like him.”
“Your husband did enough damage to you when he only suspected you had kissed Gerard de Montagne,” I countered. “What will he do when you present him with a baby whose curls are tighter and paler than your own?”
Her expression soured, but she had no answer. I took advantage of her queasiness and sudden disinterest in romance to press home the fact that she should break off the affair immediately and tell him he was no longer welcome in the Palazzo Riario. If Girolamo were not reminded regularly of the Frenchman, he would be less likely to think of him when he gazed on the face of his newborn child.
To my delight, Caterina chose to take my advice. She had finally had her fill of the amorous Gerard, and after the baby, there would be other men to conquer. But she had no desire for an unpleasant emotional confrontation. Rather than meet with him, she decided to visit the French ambassador at the embassy to deliver a gift: a barrel of the wine he had complimented when last dining at the Palazzo Riario. While Caterina was speaking to the ambassador, I was to find the unfortunate Gerard and deliver the last encrypted message he would ever receive from the contessa.
“I don’t care what you tell him,” Caterina said, when I asked her to dictate the contents of her final letter to Gerard. “Say that I don’t love him anymore, or that I’m afraid of getting caught.”
I sat down and wrote the kindest farewell letter possible. So far as Gerard would ever know, Caterina’s heart was sorely broken. She was ending the relationship for the noblest of reasons: the child in her womb, which she prayed was her lover’s, as she would treasure it all the more. The child whom she was, sadly, forced to protect from Girolamo’s wrath, lest he strike her again out of jealousy, possibly ending the pregnancy.
Two days later, I rode with Caterina to the offices of the French ambassador. Caterina had eaten an egg and quite a bit of bread that morning in hopes of settling her capricious stomach, and by late morning, she decided she was steady enough to risk the carriage. We made it to the ambassador’s palace without incident only to learn that Monsieur de Montagne had not yet reported for work that morning, and was most likely still at his residence.
Caterina duly delivered the wine to the ambassador. Afterward she directed the driver to take us directly to Monsieur de Montagne’s dwelling. The minute we arrived at the modest building that housed Gerard’s ground-floor apartments, Caterina pushed me out of the carriage.
I knocked on de Montagne’s door. It seemed cruel to dispense of him in such a cold manner. As I tried to think of what I should or should not say, the door was flung open. A willowy, dark-haired youth stood just inside the threshold. He wore a noble’s finely tailored clothes, and his expression was one of pure panic; his eyes were red and puffy from weeping.
“Where is the doctor?” he demanded, in a thick French accent. He gestured at the carriage where Caterina waited behind black gauze curtains. “Is he there? Tell him to come inside at once! My master can pay!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, thoroughly flustered. “I’ve come from the contessa, Caterina Sforza. I have a letter to deliver to your master.”
“Ah, is the contessa here?” The lad peered past me at the carriage. “Her presence would comfort him.”
Before I could reply, the youth wrung his hands and burst into tears. In a lowered voice, he admitted, “Madonna, I am afraid he will die before the doctor comes! I’m no sickmaid. . . . I don’t even know what’s wrong with him!”
A groan of misery came from the sitting room behind him.
I glanced over my shoulder at the carriage, where Caterina waited. I had not intended to do anything more than hand the letter over, but the young man’s panic was impossible to ignore. “Your master is very ill?”
The youth’s face contorted again. “Please, Madonna, help him!”
I sighed and stepped over the threshold, knowing that, back in the carriage, Caterina was cursing my inability to follow her instructions exactly.
The youth led me back into the sitting room. Light streamed in through the open, unshuttered windows and fell directly on Gerard, who lay limp and half-conscious on the couch. His grayish skin glistened with sharp-smelling sweat; I moved beside the couch, and stared down at his sunken face. He stared back through half-closed, glittering eyes and did not know me.
I whirled on the youth, who was again wringing his hands. “Close those shutters!” I ordered. “And bring a basin, a pitcher of cool water, and some towels.”
I set Caterina’s letter on a table and crouched down beside the ill man. “Monsieur, can you hear me?”
He tried to answer, but the effort nauseated him; too weak to sit, even to speak, he turned his head to one side and vomited down the side of the brocade couch. The former contents of his stomach were bilious yellow-green, streaked with bright blood. Without thinking, I pulled a kerchief from my pocket and wiped it up.
But the sight of it—and the painfully familiar convulsing of his limbs that followed—reduced me to the same level of panic as the servant, who reappeared a moment later with the pitcher, basin, and towels.
“What’s wrong, Madonna?” he asked, after seeing my expression. “Is it the plague?”
I shook my head, for a long moment unable to speak.
“Poison,” I said at last.
Chapter Eighteen
How does one describe being pulled back into the unwanted past? As I crouched beside the dying Monsieur de Montagne, I saw only my beloved Matteo, the whites of his hazel eyes bloodied, his cheeks a mottled red violet. Even when de Montagne looked up at me to whisper, Caterina, it was not his voice I heard but my dead brother’s. The grief that overtook me was as shattering as that I had felt the morning Matteo died.
I would have stayed to hold Gerard’s hand until the last breath came, but the doctor finally arrived and ordered me to leave. Stunned, I made my way back to the carriage, where a very irritated Caterina was waiting.
“I almost sent the coachman after you!” she scolded as I climbed in beside her. She would have launched into a tirade, but the sight of my face silenced her.
The carriage lurched as the driver goaded the horses.
Caterina spoke again, this time in a low, if anxious, tone. “What is it, Dea? What has happened?”
I stared out through the curtains at the streets of Rome, sheerly veiled in black, and struggled to contain tears that should have been shed months ago.
“He is dying,” I said finally. “He asked for you.”
“Dying!” Caterina recoiled from me. “Of what? Fever? Don’t tell me he has plague!”
I shook my head. “He was poisoned, Madonna.”
She drew
in a sharp breath and lifted her fingers to her mouth in a gesture that revealed not sorrow, but fear. She did not tell the driver to reverse his course and return to the Frenchman’s house; instead, she leaned out the window, the gauze curtain hiding her from the scrutiny of passersby, and shouted for him to hurry home.
Then she turned to me, and in the same fierce, heartless tone, demanded: “How do you know this? How can you be so sure?”
“Because Matteo died of poison,” I replied in angry disgust, flicking away unwanted tears. “Because I know the symptoms.”
This revelation shocked her. We rode the rest of the way in silence, Caterina frowning down at her hands in her lap, her mind working at lightning speed, I staring out at Rome, darkly veiled.
We heard nothing more about Gerard de Montagne. Two days later, Count Girolamo decided that he wished to dine with his wife in private, something he had rarely done since the marriage. When Caterina received his invitation, her bravado momentarily deserted her, and she begged me to serve as her cupbearer. That way, I would only be a step or two away from her throughout the meal, and although I was not strong enough to save her from Girolamo’s blows, she felt that my presence would bring her luck.
Dinner was a tense affair, held in the private dining chamber just off Girolamo’s study. Caterina and I arrived first, and the contessa took her chair while I positioned myself two steps behind her. She would not take the water mixed with wine that Girolamo’s cupbearer offered, but insisted that I fetch her water from the kitchen pump myself. Nor would she avail herself of any of the morsels offered her before Girolamo arrived.
Instead, she sat listening to the argument in the next room between her husband and some unfortunate aide. Her pregnancy had not yet changed her body, though it left her cheeks pale and her appetite uncertain. She had not yet revealed it to her husband, as she wanted Gerard’s kiss to be long forgotten before she announced the coming child.
A quarter of an hour later, Girolamo arrived in a foul mood. In the months since his wedding, the count had gained weight; his long, equine face had fattened, too, evoking the bloated features of his father, Pope Sixtus.
Caterina rose and curtsied to him. “How do you fare this evening, my lord?” she asked cheerfully.
“Well, I suppose,” Girolamo answered sourly, and gestured impatiently for her to retake her seat as he settled at the table. “And you?”
“Quite well.” Caterina picked up her goblet while Girolamo’s cupbearer stepped up to fill his, and said, “To your health, my lord.”
“To your health,” Girolamo echoed unenthusiastically, and drank. When he set his cup down and signaled for it to be refilled, he sat back and narrowed his tiny eyes at Caterina.
“To what do I owe the honor of your company this evening?” the contessa asked brightly.
He tensed in his chair and lifted his long chin with faint defiance. “Do I need a reason to want to have dinner with my wife?”
“You do not, my lord. I’m simply happy to be with you this evening.”
The conversation continued in this awkward fashion until the first course—a minestra, consisting of pasta in temperate veal broth with vegetables—arrived. Before dinner, I had gone to the kitchen with a taster, who tried all the different dishes and remained in the kitchen to guard the portions set aside for our mistress. Caterina’s pallor and the beads of sweat on her brow indicated that she was sorely nauseated, but she forced down a few spoonsful, all the while keeping her attention on the count.
Girolamo could not control his impatience for very long. Before the first-course dishes were taken away, he leaned across the table and stared piercingly at his wife.
“So,” he said, with poorly feigned casualness, “an acquaintance of ours was recently murdered.”
Caterina lifted her brows in surprise and crossed herself. “How dreadful! Who was it?”
She made a point of taking another spoonful of minestra and chewing it slowly, calmly, while she awaited her husband’s reply.
“It was the senior aide to the French ambassador—Jean or Jacques de Montagne, I think his name was.” Girolamo eyed her with hawkish intensity.
Caterina wisely failed to correct the name.
“Oh, my,” she responded with mild interest, as if this news made for interesting dinner conversation. “Wasn’t that the rude young man who . . .” She paused, lowering her gaze. “Well, you know.”
“Yes,” Girolamo answered flatly. “That rude young man.”
Caterina lifted her fearless gaze to her husband. “How was he killed?”
“Poison,” Girolamo said, in a tone that conveyed, Let that be a lesson to you.
Caterina reacted not at all. “Do they know who did it?”
Now it was her turn to scrutinize her spouse’s reaction. Girolamo shrugged his shoulders and dropped his gaze as he said, “Not yet.”
The uncertainty in his demeanor broke the tension and fed Caterina’s confidence. “It must be very dangerous to be a diplomat in Rome,” she said. “Do you think the ambassador might have been the target?”
“I doubt it,” the count said nastily. “I say good riddance to the bastard! He deserves it for thinking he could take liberties with my wife.”
Caterina directed an affectionate smile at him and reached across the table to pat his huge hand.
“I am a lucky woman,” she said, “to have a husband so protective of my honor.”
Girolamo and I stared at her in amazement. This was clearly not the outcome the count had imagined; most likely, he had expected Caterina to tearfully confess everything, but her poise and genuine disinterest in Monsieur de Montagne’s fate stymied him. Cruel as he was, he could not imagine a woman in such total control of her emotions that she would not cry upon hearing of her lover’s death.
The supper continued on for less than an hour, at which point Girolamo excused himself, citing pressing business.
By the time she reached her bedchamber, Caterina was triumphant and gloating. It apparently did not bother her that her husband was capable of poisoning a man for no more than suspicion.
The Frenchman’s death troubled me greatly, but not in the manner I suspected. I spent little time worrying over whether Girolamo would strike again, unexpectedly, by poisoning Caterina now that he no longer suspected her of infidelity.
Instead, I spent my nights staring into my dying brother’s face; my days were spent distracting myself from the raw grief that hovered nearby, ready to consume me should I allow an instant of weakness. Dark memories swallowed all the joy I had felt on account of my recent encounter with Luca, so that when he appeared suddenly at places I did not expect to find him, I could only smile wanly and excuse myself.
During this time, Caterina shocked me by announcing there would be a lone visitor to supper: Rodrigo Borgia, the Spanish cardinal. Girolamo would also be attending, although the idea had been strictly Caterina’s; she had convinced her husband that Borgia, having served as chancellor to several popes, had accumulated a great deal of political knowledge and would make an excellent ally. Girolamo agreed with reluctance, which he childishly displayed throughout the intimate supper for the three of them. It soon became clear that Girolamo and Borgia disliked each other too intensely for there to be any hope of a real alliance; the count excused himself early from the meal, claiming to have forgotten to tend to some emergency business.
Borgia appeared to take no offense, and remained at table with the contessa, who conversed amiably with him, as if the humiliating encounter at his secret palazzo had never taken place. I remained in attendance, but only ten minutes after Girolamo’s departure, my mistress turned to me and said, “Dismiss all the others, Dea, and leave yourself. You may wait out in the corridor.”
A rush of heat pricked the skin from my collarbone to my cheeks; I shot Caterina a look of utter disbelief. What was she thinking, asking to be alone with the infamous womanizer? Now, under her husband’s roof, while Girolamo was nearby?
She i
gnored my startled gaze as she shooed me off with her hand.
I motioned for the others to leave, then went myself, not without first making sure that Caterina noticed my disapproval.
She and Borgia remained alone together for the better part of an hour. I was so distressed that I pressed my ear to the door, not caring whether I was caught. I heard no unsettling pauses, no rustling of fabric or hints of physical movement—only earnest, intense conversation, too soft for my ears to decipher.
When dinner was over and the two of them emerged, Caterina escorted Borgia solemnly to the front entrance. There was a new, easy camaraderie between them, and when Borgia caught Caterina’s hands as he wished her a good night, he kissed her cheeks as an old family friend would. She returned the gesture, rising onto her toes to solemnly press her lips to his olive skin.
When the guest had departed, I hurried over to my mistress and followed her up the stairs to her apartments. “Madonna,” I hissed, half a step behind her. “What are you thinking, being alone with him like that? Your husband just killed a man out of jealousy! And here you are dining alone with Borgia, of all people!”
She stopped abruptly on the staircase so that I could come alongside her. “I simply wish to understand the workings of the Vatican. Borgia knows much that is of help to my husband. If Girolamo walks into the room, he will see that nothing untoward is happening.”
“Borgia is a lecher, Madonna,” I began, but Caterina silenced me with a sharp gesture and began moving again.
“He is a resource. I do this for the House of Riario. I want to see it increase in power; Sixtus won’t live forever. Then what becomes of Girolamo—and more important, of me and my child?”
I stared at her in amazement. She was newly pregnant and not even fifteen, of an age when some girls were only beginning to think about marriage. But Caterina was more concerned with her political fate.
Two days later, when Girolamo was traveling again on business, Borgia arrived again and dined alone with Her Illustriousness. As before, I attended Caterina during the meal, but was dismissed from the dining chamber once she and Borgia had eaten. This time, their conversation lasted two hours; again, I kept my ear to the door and heard nothing but incomprehensible murmurs.