Читать книгу The Scarlet Contessa - Jeanne Kalogridis - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Bona was surprisingly cheerful that morning. Normally, her husband’s violent infidelities would have left her shaken and sorrowful for a few days, but the instant I arrived in her chamber, she informed me that Duke Galeazzo had yielded to her request that she be allowed to honor his “secret guest” with a luncheon. The duke was reluctant, but, apparently, Lorenzo was eager to make amends for “startling the ladies in the chapel.”

It was to be an intimate event. Situated in a corner tower, Galeazzo’s private dining chamber had an unusually high vaulted ceiling; the stone floors were covered in Persian carpets in shades of scarlet, pine, and gold to mute the echoing tread of servants and the clatter of goblets and plates. Two arched windows faced north and east; these were shuttered that morning to keep out prying eyes and the bitter cold, and the great hearth contained such a fierce crackling blaze that I began to sweat the instant I entered the room. A pair of large tapestries covered the walls on either side of the eastern window, and the bare walls had been painted with trellises of flowers. But what was most remarkable, to my mind, were the eight long oval mirrors—four hung on the wall behind the table, four on the wall in front—that allowed the duke to see his reflection’s reflection, as well as those of everyone in front of or behind him. These, combined with his four tasters—who sampled everything before it appeared on Galeazzo’s plate or in his cup—gave him some measure of comfort, for even he realized that he had earned many enemies.

Lorenzo was waiting when we women arrived, an hour before midday. He wore a great smile that emphasized his jutting lower jaw by revealing his bottom row of teeth, yet it somehow served to ease his ugliness. That morning, he was unaccompanied and dressed in a plain, long tunic of gray wool. He wore no jewelry, nor had his straight locks felt the kiss of a curling iron. Yet when Bona’s arrival was announced, he bowed and kissed her extended hand with a seasoned courtier’s finesse; though he presented himself as a commoner, his confidence and self-possession marked him as an equal. Caterina, too, was announced and received a similar reception. I entered silently, to no fanfare, and expected no greeting, but Lorenzo bowed deeply to me, and when I responded with a curtsy, said warmly, “Dea, isn’t it? The wife of Matteo da Prato?”

“I am,” I said, blushing. I was unaccustomed to being acknowledged by anyone save Bona.

“I am an acquaintance of your husband’s,” he said. “I have known him for many years. It was I, in fact, who recommended him to the duke for employment.”

Tongue-tied in the face of his composure and charm, I had no response.

Duke Galeazzo was late, requiring Bona and Lorenzo to engage in small talk for half an hour. Galeazzo’s secretary and right-hand man, the thick-necked, burly Cicco Simonetta, arrived first. With his peasant’s hair—long on top, cropped sharply above his oddly small ears—and round, heavy face, Cicco could easily have been mistaken for an ignorant bumpkin were it not for his fine dress and the shrewdness in his eyes. The duke kept no secrets from Cicco, who greeted Lorenzo with no smile and much reticence.

After the silent appearance of three sullen, armed bodyguards, and the emergence of attendants and the ducal cupbearer from the kitchen, Galeazzo arrived—without the usual blare of trumpets, given that Lorenzo’s arrival was to be known by as few residents of Castle Pavia as possible. The duke’s pride, however, required that his entry be accompanied by the sung praises of one of the castrated tenors who had entertained us in Bona’s chamber the day before.

A month shy of his thirty-third birthday, Galeazzo Maria was in his prime. Like all the Sforza, he was sturdy, muscular, and passionately devoted to sport. His tunic, of gray-green watered silk embroidered with bronze fleur-de-lis, with white ermine trim at the collar, was tailored to show off a powerful chest and shoulders. His cap of light reddish brown hair was cut in layers, long enough to cover his ears but too short to touch his collar; as was the fashion, carefully crimped curls framed his face. The latter was dominated by a strong nose, so badly broken in his youth that the bridge had a large bump. His green eyes were deep set, round, and ringed by shadows, his lips thin and permanently pursed in an arrogant sneer.

This was the man who had ordered one of his enemies to be nailed to his coffin before being buried alive; who had, instead of showing generosity to a starving peasant who dared catch a hare in the hunting park, killed him by forcing him to swallow the unskinned animal whole; and who had, in a spasm of jealousy, chopped off the hands of a courtier who had caressed one of Galeazzo’s former lovers. The duke had been born not to heartless parents but to a brave warrior, Francesco Sforza, and a proud, strong-willed but charitable woman, Bianca Maria Visconti, daughter of the Duke of Milan. His parents were much loved, and as their eldest son grew to maturity, they were perplexed by his arrogance and cruelty. When his father died and Galeazzo claimed the duchy, he resisted his mother’s advice; she died of a mysterious fever—or poison, some say, on the order of her own son.

As the singer’s voice faded, Galeazzo glared at his wife and jerked his chin in my direction. “What is she doing here? I wanted as few people as possible to know of this!”

I stared intently at the carpet while Bona stammered.

Lorenzo interjected smoothly, “It is on my account, Your Grace; do you recall? I disturbed the three of them at prayer yesterday, and wished to make my apologies to each one today.”

Galeazzo frowned; the weather had kept him from the hunt, which added to his usual irritability. I feared he would lose his temper at the subtle reference to yesterday’s incident with the screaming young woman. The sight of Lorenzo, however, distracted him enough so that he gave a small, tight smile.

“Good Lorenzo! How do you fare?”

“Well, Your Grace,” Lorenzo replied, “especially when I am surrounded by such lovely women.” He gestured at us three.

Galeazzo’s smile widened at the compliment. “She is beautiful, is she not?” he asked proudly, and went to take his daughter Caterina’s hand. He kissed her on the lips, after which Caterina curtsied and shot the rest of us a gloating glance.

The duke moved to Lorenzo next. The two clasped hands and slapped each other upon the shoulder with more affection than I had ever seen the duke show his brothers. Milan and Florence were solid allies; Lorenzo’s grandfather, Cosimo, had supported Galeazzo’s father’s claim to the duchy of Milan.

Questioning Lorenzo about his journey from more temperate Florence through the freezing weather, the duke passed by his wife with a careless nod, and took no further notice of me. As he moved toward the massive ebony table—carved, at the top of each leg, with the symbol of the Sforza, of a dragon-headed serpent swallowing a naked child—a servant scrambled to pull out the tallest chair for him. He settled against the red leather padding and snapped his fingers; instantly, his cupbearer leaned forward and set an amethyst-studded golden goblet into the duke’s waiting hand. Galeazzo told each of us where to sit: Lorenzo on his right, the silent, stolid Cicco on his left. Bona sat directly across from her husband; Caterina sat to her left, facing Lorenzo, while I sat on Bona’s right.

A pair of servants hurried to light the tapers in two heavy candelabra upon the table; Galeazzo turned to one of them. “Bring the wine now, and the food; besides, I’m hungry, and Lorenzo cannot tarry.” He looked back at Bona. “Once we have eaten, you women must depart; we men have private business to discuss.”

“Then with your leave, Your Grace,” Lorenzo said, “I should like to present Her Grace the Lady Bona with a gift, for her hospitality, with hopes that it will ease some of the difficulties I have caused her.”

If Galeazzo was angered or insulted by Lorenzo’s second veiled reference to the violated woman, he did not show it. He nodded, faintly bored, and watched as Lorenzo reached into the pocket of his tunic and produced a box of red velvet studded with tiny diamonds.

“For you, Your Grace,” he said to Bona, and smiling, rose slightly in order to hand it to her across the table. “I pray this humble gift pleases you.”

Bona forgot her embarrassment and beamed. “Your Magnificence,” she said, “dear Lorenzo, no guest of mine has ever been more welcome . . . or more gracious.” She took it from him and held the box so that the gold embroidery and the diamonds glittered in the candlelight. “How very handsome.”

“Look inside, Your Grace,” Lorenzo prompted.

Carefully, the duchess opened the lid. Inside, tied together with a silk ribbon, was a thick rectangular object, slightly longer and broader than Bona’s hand; she lifted it out of the box, revealing a deck of cards made of thick parchment coated with white gesso and painted.

She did her best to mask her response, but I knew that she did not approve of playing cards. She forced a smile as she undid the ribbon. I stared with her at the backs, prettily illustrated with flowers and vases, and bordered by angels.

“They’re lovely,” she said to Lorenzo. “Thank you.”

“Turn it over,” Caterina said impatiently.

She did, and like Caterina, let go a slight gasp of amazement at the sight.

The front side of the card was covered in gold leaf, which had been painstakingly etched with numerous fine geometric designs; the texture made the bright gold flash with reflected light. Upon this dazzling backdrop was painted the image of a pauper, a young, wide-eyed man barefoot and dressed in tatters, with a walking stick resting against one shoulder. He stood on the very edge of a dark chasm; emerald and sapphire hills sprawled out behind him.

Bona began to set the cards out in front of her, one by one. “But these are beautiful,” she breathed.

“I know of your love for illustrated manuscripts,” Lorenzo explained. “I had hoped that these might please you. That one is the first in the deck; he is called the Fool.”

Galeazzo let go a laugh. “I know of these!” he said. “These are triumph cards. Oh, I will dazzle my companions with these!” He lowered his voice and winked slyly at Lorenzo. “Yet another way for me to lose money at the gambling table!”

The duchess tensed; Lorenzo saw, and said diplomatically to Galeazzo, “It’s true, my lord, that these are triumph cards. Yet this deck is special. Some would prefer to use it for more serious pursuits.”

Galeazzo scowled in puzzlement. “Such as?”

“Seeing the future.”

The duke lifted a brow and peered down at the cards with renewed interest. “Really?”

Beneath the table, Bona clenched one fist; only I could see, and only I knew that she wanted to cross herself out of fear. “These are devilish,” she whispered, so faintly that I was surprised that Lorenzo heard.

“Far from it, Your Grace,” he told her. “They reveal what God wishes us to see of the future, that he may deal more directly with our souls. Yet they could, I suppose, be misused by those with evil in their hearts.”

He said more, but I did not hear it, for Bona had just turned over the twelfth card. I found myself staring down at the image of a man suspended upside down from a rope bound to his ankle. His hands were hid, helpless, behind his back, and his unbound leg was bent at the knee and crossed behind the other, to form an upside-down numeral four.

I was too riveted to stop myself from reaching for the card, from taking it and holding it before my eyes. At the time, I could not see the painting on the card of a man with golden curls; instead I saw Matteo, with his dark auburn hair falling straight beneath his head. On the card, the man’s eyes were dark and open, but I saw only Matteo’s eyes, shut, his features white and deathly still. Matteo, limp and dying . . .

It was the image I had read in the stars, in the fire. Despite the blazing hearth, I grew cold. Matteo was in danger of dying, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“Dea,” Bona said sharply in my ear, and snatched the card from my grasp. I looked up and realized that the others had been speaking for some time; I had been somewhere else entirely. In the interim, the soup had magically arrived; a plate sat steaming in front of me.

Lorenzo was studying me intently. “Madonna Dea,” he asked softly, “what do you see?”

“My husband,” I murmured, stricken.

He reached across the table and set a long, tapered finger down, pointing to the card. “This is called the Hanged Man. Yet you can see, he does not struggle.” Surrender to evil forces, I imagined him saying, though he uttered not another word, with the intent of sacrifice.

“Does she see things in the cards?” the duke called gaily over Lorenzo. “Can she tell our future, then?” Ignoring Bona’s tense expression, Galeazzo pointed at me. “Gather them up,” he directed. “Mix them, and choose our futures.” He chuckled. “No gambling, so long as the ladies are here.”

Bona had stiffened in her chair, but she handed me the deck; Caterina’s eyes were gleaming with curiosity and amusement at her and my discomfort. Galeazzo snapped his fingers again, and with a gesture, bade a servant clear away my plate.

The cards were overlarge, unwieldy, stiff from the gesso plaster. I had expected them to be cool to the touch, yet they were warm in my hands, as if they were living things. I stared down at the table’s ebony surface, polished to a reflective sheen, and felt the present melt away.

I set them down and fanned them out facedown upon the ebony. They were too stiff to be shuffled, so I moved them about, again and again, until it was impossible to identify the cards that Bona had turned over earlier. When I was satisfied, I gathered them together and fanned them out again, and said to Galeazzo, “Your Grace, choose one card.”

He shot an excited glance at Lorenzo and grinned, then indicated his choice by pointing. I took the card and pushed it slightly toward him but decided that it was not yet time to reveal it.

“Now His Magnificence,” the duke said.

Lorenzo’s smile was encouraging as he met my gaze. It was unsettling to encounter a stranger who was exposing my ability to recognize portents, yet I trusted him. He reached out and tapped the wood near his chosen card.

I pushed it from the deck toward him. Cicco, as always carefully appraising the others without revealing his own feelings, accepted a card without comment.

“Would it please Your Grace for the ladies each to have one, as well?” Lorenzo asked with consummate politeness.

Galeazzo gave a loud sniff of impatience, but nodded to me. I shifted in my chair toward Bona, but the duchess gently shook her head.

“The cards are exquisite,” she said sweetly, “and I shall treasure them always, just as I shall treasure my friendship with the magnificent Lorenzo. But I am content to wait upon God to reveal the future in His own good time.”

Galeazzo scowled at her and clicked his tongue. “Come now, don’t spoil our fun!” His temper was rising, and he would have lashed out at his wife had Caterina not interrupted.

“One for me then! One for me!”

Lorenzo said cheerfully, “It seems, Your Grace, that the young lady does not wish to be kept waiting.”

The duke sighed, yielding, and gestured for me to give his impatient daughter a card. I set it down and pushed it in Caterina’s direction. Rather than wait for the others, she reached out and turned her card over immediately. As she stared down at it, her expression soured. “But it is only the Fool! I want another!”

Lorenzo looked to me before saying, very softly, “It can be a good card, Madonna Caterina. You might not want to dismiss it.”

I studied it. The Fool’s eyes were fearless and innocent, his posture unguarded. He was on the verge of a long and tumultuous experience, ignorant as a child of the perils awaiting him. He might well decide to turn and head for the serene mountains behind him, in which case, he could reach the highest pinnacle—or he could just as well take a single step forward and fall into the dark, yawning chasm.

“A long journey awaits you,” I said. Caterina leaned past Bona, the better to see and hear me. Expression avid, the girl propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin upon her hand; the long golden curls framing her face spilled forward and caught the light. “The most important journey of your life,” I continued. “Be cautious and reflective, lest you fall into danger.”

She drew back, mollified. Aware that Lorenzo’s eyes were on me, I did not wait for his prompting, but drew one last card, for myself, and set it aside.

Galeazzo was intrigued and once again smiling. “Let us go in ascending order now. Her card first”—he indicated me—“and then yours, Lorenzo, and Cicco’s, and last of all, mine.”

I turned over my card, and fell into the image, scarcely hearing Bona’s soft, shocked inhalation.

I saw a woman dressed in flowing golden robes and cape and seated upon a throne. She wore a nun’s white wimple, and upon her head, unmistakably, rested the triple crown of the papal tiara; in one hand, she held a holy book, in the other, a long staff atop which rested a large gold cross.

She was a female pope, a papess—a scandalous image, yet I was not in the least appalled. I trusted her, with the same unreasoning certainty I trusted Lorenzo. I stared at the landscape around her, seeking clues as to where I might find her; a green, carefully tended orchard lay in the distance behind her.

I must have stared for some time, but my reverie was interrupted by a sharp pain in my shin as Caterina kicked me beneath the table.

“She is . . .” I began, and searched desperately for a word that would not offend Bona; papess was out of the question, as was priestess. Finally I said, “The Abbess. She holds much wise spiritual advice.”

Lorenzo’s card was the male version of mine—a white-haired, bearded man wearing the gold papal crown, with a gold cross atop his staff. But the card had been accidentally turned upside down, and at the sight of it, I felt a thrill of fear.

Lorenzo’s homely face grew solemn as he gazed upon it. “The pope, ill-dignified,” he said.

I stared back at it, too, and saw a thousand fleeting things, too numerous to give voice to: an old, vengeful man weeping over a dead son, the swirl of frankincense, the glint of a blade, a spray of blood, an oddly familiar voice sighing, Lorenzo . . . My fear must have been visible, for when I looked up again, the women were wide-eyed and silent, and Galeazzo, though frowning, was chastened.

I struggled to put all that I had seen into words. “There is vengeance here,” I said, “and sorrow, and great treachery. You must take care, or there will be blood.”

Bona crossed herself; the duke and Lorenzo shared a troubled, knowing glance. “I know how to deal with the matter now,” Lorenzo said, his tone firmly optimistic; I felt his words were not so much true as intended to comfort Duke Galeazzo. “I will take care. Thank you, Madonna Dea.”

“All this seriousness!” Galeazzo scolded. “Here now, this was meant as lighthearted entertainment.” He gazed sternly at me. “Read Cicco’s card now, and see to it that it doesn’t spoil our luncheon!” He nudged Lorenzo playfully as he addressed me. “Speak to us now of song and sport and love!”

I murmured an apology and turned over Cicco’s card. Ten glittering golden coins rested against a white backdrop decorated with flowers; I sighed with relief. “You will come into a good sum of money,” I told him.

Cicco gave the slightest of smiles and nodded; the duke grinned, pleased.

“That’s because I pay him too well!” Galeazzo quipped. “Now, let’s see if I am luckier than my secretary!”

I turned over the duke’s card. Like Lorenzo’s, it was upside down. Upon a throne, a crowned king sat in full gilded armor. In his left hand was a gilded shield, in his right, a long sword with a wicked sharp point. His hair appeared golden on the card, but my internal eye recognized a dark-haired man, a courtier wild with outrage, who had waved his sword at Lorenzo de’ Medici.

I felt a welling of dark satisfaction. “Here is justice at last,” I said.

The duke frowned. “Regarding which matter?”

I shook off the pull of the card and kept my wits. I wanted desperately to see what action this king of swords would take, and whether that action would succeed; I hoped that vengeance was coming at last to His Grace, but feared warning him. I did not want him to be able to protect himself.

And so I pretended to study the card further, then said, in as casual a tone as I could muster, “There is business that soon will be concluded, though not to His Grace’s favor, unless he take exceptional care.”

“Which business?” he persisted. The appearance of another negative symbol had awakened his ire; if I answered in a manner that displeased him, we would all pay.

I replied smoothly, “Political. I will speak no more of it, for I believe it concerns a secret matter. I have confidence that, should his Grace ponder the card, he will come to a clever solution to avoid the difficulty.”

He nodded, feigning understanding, and studied the card thoughtfully until Caterina, her blue eyes narrowed with curiosity, said to me, “So it’s true . . . your mother was a witch!”

I looked up sharply. Beside me, Bona turned to Caterina and hissed: “Mind your tongue!”

I had spent the past nine years of my life with Bona and had never heard her criticize Caterina, much less scold her in anger. Nor had the duke, who leaned across the table to give his wife a look that threatened imminent physical violence.

“Caterina jests,” Galeazzo said witheringly. And to prove it, he laughed, but when by accident I caught his eye, I saw the fear in it.

An hour before dusk I made my way down to Matteo’s chamber, ostensibly to rekindle the fire. In truth, I wanted to be alone so that I could cry. Since the appearance of the Hanged Man, I had been increasingly worried about Matteo. Bona had said that he would come today, but Bona was wrong; the triumph card had merely confirmed my feeling that something terrible had happened.

My mood had not been helped by Bona’s reaction to the deck—or, more to the point, her reaction to my reaction. After bidding Lorenzo a warm farewell, the duchess had returned to her chambers in uncharacteristic silence, clutching the red velvet box containing the cards. Upon arriving in her quarters, Bona had given it to one of the chambermaids, with instructions to “hide it well, where I will not soon set eyes upon it again.” Caterina, too, was unusually quiet, though her eyes were adance with amusement at the duchess’s and my discomfort.

I confess, I paid close attention when the chambermaid moved toward a trunk set in a corner near the duchess’s bed, opened it, and slipped the box beneath a fur throw.

While Bona retreated to her wardrobe to change into less restrictive attire, I moved to the front of the chamber to gaze anxiously out the window overlooking the duke’s hunting park. Caterina followed, and when I was certain the duchess was thoroughly distracted, I asked the girl, “Madonna, why did you say that? About my mother being a witch?”

“You should have seen your eyes,” Caterina hissed, widening her own until the whites showed ghoulishly. “There were times, I swear, when you had no idea where you were . . . you were carried off by visions!”

Impatient, I pressed: “What has this to do with my mother, Madonna? You speak as though you’ve heard rumors.”

“I have,” she said coyly.

“From whom?”

“From Nonna Beatrice,” she replied. Nonna had been Bona’s girlhood nurse and had accompanied the duchess from Savoy when the latter had married Galeazzo; Nonna had died the previous year. “She said your mother was a witch and saw the future.”

I controlled the urge to shake the duke’s favorite daughter by her shoulders. “What else did she say about her? What else?”

Caterina shrugged; her shell pink lips curved upward in delight at my agitation. “Just that.”

Nothing I said could force her to say more. Shortly afterward the duchess joined us, with the curt remark: “No good ever came of fortune-telling.”

With that, Bona dismissed the subject completely and ignored all of Caterina’s attempts to revive it. I spent the rest of the day marking the movement of the sun and struggling to suppress my growing dread. When dusk came, Bona dismissed me. While she was undressing and the chambermaids distracted, I did an unthinkable, inexplicable thing: I went to the trunk, slipped my hand beneath the fur throw, and made off with the diamond-littered velvet box. I wrapped my shawl tightly around me, tucking the hand that held the box beneath it, around my waist, and headed down to the first-floor loggia, bound for Matteo’s apartment.

Lorenzo was there, leaving one of the guest quarters with his two gentlemen; the three of them wore cloaks and caps and riding gloves, and carried saddlebags. My hand was on the door when Lorenzo caught sight of me and waved.

“Madonna,” he called, and handed his saddlebag to one of the men, then gestured to both of them to go on to the stables ahead of him. It was an odd hour, I thought, to be setting out for distant Florence.

“A word with you,” he said as he approached. But the loggia was crowded with servants headed wearily back to their quarters; a pair of Cicco’s apprentice clerks brushed past us, laughing and joking. Lorenzo looked pointedly at the door handle to Matteo’s room. “Might it be a private word, Madonna Dea?”

I dropped my gaze. He was a man in his late twenties—homely, to be sure, but with an accomplished swordsman’s shoulders—and I a young woman. His request was faintly inappropriate, but his manner held no whiff of impropriety. He was also unquestionably my better, so I unlocked the door and gestured for His Magnificence to enter. As I did so, I could not help but reveal the velvet box in my hand; he marked it without comment, and I offered no explanation.

Inside, the fire was reduced to glowing embers, but the hearthstones still gave off a good deal of warmth. I stood near the door, the box still in my hand.

Lorenzo removed neither cloak nor glove; his expression was as darkly serious as I had ever seen it. “Forgive my brazen request, Madonna,” he began. “I intend nothing improper. But I did not wish to be overheard.” He paused. “As I said, I know your husband well. It was my understanding that he was to have arrived home yesterday.”

“Yes,” I said, embarrassed that my voice betrayed all my repressed tears. I expected him to reassure me then, to say something comforting, but Lorenzo was, apparently, no liar. Or perhaps, like me, he had recognized the danger in the Hanged Man.

“I am sorry for that,” he said softly, “and for your worry. I had hoped for a word with him in private. But I can tarry no longer, as my wife and children will never forgive me if I’m not home by Christmas.” He studied me for a long moment. “I can trust you to deliver a message for his ears alone, can’t I, Madonna?”

“Of course,” I answered, and he smiled faintly at my indignant tone.

“If Matteo returns before tomorrow evening, would you tell him that I have taken the route to the north, and will await him at the lodge? He knows which one.”

I lifted my brows in surprise at the direction; Florence lay well to the south of Pavia and Milan. “I will be sure to tell him, Your Magnificence.”

“Lorenzo,” he admonished me cheerfully, then grew serious again; his gaze strayed to the velvet box in my hand. “God gave you a gift, Madonna Dea, one best practiced with discretion, and shown to few. I am glad to see your interest in it. It is not my place to give such a new acquaintance advice, but—”

“I should like to hear it,” I interrupted bluntly.

“The duchess and others mean well, but . . . Do not let them keep you from it. Such a gift was meant to be used. Remember the parable of the servant and the talents.”

“I will,” I said.

“Good. Then God keep you, Madonna Dea, until we meet again.”

“And you,” I responded.

As I watched him slip out the door, I felt a sudden conviction that our next encounter would come too soon.