Authors: Lisa Hilton
In the long hours that I watched over Caterina, I sorted through my memories, piling them like pebbles, one here, the other there. I scrabbled my hand between my legs and ran it over my closed
flesh. That was true. I scrabbled in my memory beneath Margherita’s rags and saw myself drawing out the palle beneath Cecco’s astonished eyes. That was true. I rooted through my dreams
and saw that they had come about, that I had seen Piero’s fall, and Caterina’s. I had brought back the old wolf at the troupe’s campground. That was true. And they had been there,
that night at the Rocca. So why, when I tried through those endlessly short winter days, to send out my voice to the hills around the city, to make the wolves come again, were they gone? None of it
made sense to me, except the futility of my fantasies that I would ever escape. So if my lady was beyond weeping, I was, too. I had been taken once from my burning home to be locked up in a strange
place in the clothes I stood up in, and here I was again, no better or wiser than that frightened girl long ago in Toledo.
Each evening, a message came from Valentino to ask if the Countess would take supper with him, and each evening I refused for her. The month was nearing its end when word came that we were to be
moved to the Palazzo Paolucci, where the French command was lodging. At least my lady submitted to me now, though she maintained that silence that I understood so well. What use are words when
everything has been taken from you? But she allowed me to bathe her in warm water and scent her skin with attar of roses, to comb out and braid her hair and lace her into a soft gown, which hung a
little loose at the waist and hips. She was not to go out as a prisoner, but as an honoured guest; the French sent an escort of guards and even a trumpeter, as though she was an ambassador rather
than a trophy of war. We made the short walk across the city in twilight, through empty streets. Those who still remained in Forli had barricaded themselves in their houses, and though the ravages
of the French could be seen on every side, the town seemed curiously peaceful. The Countess kept her eyes to the ground, she would not raise them to the skyline where the blackened hulk of the
Rocca loomed above us.
As we came into the piazza we heard shouts. A group of drunken soldiers had cornered two young girls, dragging them, leering and stumbling, towards San Mercuriale. The girls’ cloaks were
torn from them, they clutched their gowns pathetically over their breasts and then, as we watched, one of the group took his dagger and slit their chemises, exposing their naked skin. That,
finally, wakened something in the Countess. Even as the guards rushed over to discipline the men, she screamed. Shrieking, her arms flailing wildly, she tried to break away, and when one of the men
held her arm she fought him desperately, kicking and writhing. It took three of them to subdue her, sobbing hysterically on her knees, as I rushed to her side and held her hand tightly.
‘Please, Madonna,’ I whispered. ‘Please, not here. Not where we can be seen. Come, now.’
She clung to me, as she had done once before. I knelt awkwardly to support her weight, stroking her shoulders and hair to soothe her until the storm of weeping had passed.
‘You must be brave,’ I told her, ‘you mustn’t let them see.’
She calmed, I helped her to rise, settling her gown into place, glaring furiously at the smirking guards.
‘My lady was unwell,’ I said loudly. ‘It is the shock of the night air. But she is better now.’
‘Blasted wildcat,’ muttered the guard who had restrained her, sucking at his arm where she had bitten it.
‘You will know your place or regret it, sir,’ I answered stoutly. My lady composed herself and continued walking, her head held high now. I shuddered at the cries of the soldiers,
unchastened and jeering, prowling the piazza for another victim.
We were greeted by Monsieur d’Allegre, the representative of the French king who had heard my lady’s submission. He offered refreshments, which the Countess refused. Nor would she
speak, nor send me away, though Monsieur d’Allegre addressed her first in Italian, then in French, then, despairingly, in schoolboy Latin. I had taken one of the gowns that had been sent in
for the Countess, the most modest I could find, a dark blue silk, and covered my hair decently with a mantle. I hoped I did not look too odd. I stood behind the chair she had been offered before
the fire and cast my eyes at my folded hands in the long silence.
I saw how the Frenchman watched her, how his curiosity to see the legendary lady of Forli was overcoming even his good manners.
‘There is some doubt, madam, as to whom, that is, where . . .’
He coughed and tried again.
‘His Majesty of France is of the opinion that you, my lady . . .’
Caterina turned her face up to him, her eyes alive for the first time in so long. Her voice was hoarse, ugly.
‘You are uncertain, sir, as to who owns me? Whose trophy I am, no?’
‘The French king does not take women as prisoners, madam. Honour requires us to protect and release any ladies who are, ahem, that is.’
‘But I am not a lady, am I, sir? I am Countess of Forli. Or, at least,’ her hand went to her throat, her fingers seeking her lost ruby, ‘at least I was. Which means I am
valuable to you. Though I very much doubt that there will be any in Italy who will step forward to ransom me. I am rich in admirers, I believe, but no longer in friends.’
‘I think it best, lady, if the matter of your-ah-peculiar case be left to my master, His Majesty, to decide.’
‘My uncle of Milan—’
‘There is no ruler in Milan, madam, but the King of France. I wish only to know whether you prefer to remain here, as my guest, naturally, until this matter has been decided, or whether
you wish to continue under the-ah-the protection of Monsieur le Duc de Valentinois.’
‘I may choose?’
‘Of course, madam. We are not barbarians.’
My lady rose. She was graceful again, haughty. ‘Of course not, sir. Merely minions. Very well, you may inform your master that until he makes his pleasure known, I prefer to remain with my
countryman, Monsieur le Duc. I wish you good evening. Come, Mora.’
And in the flick she gave to the train of her gown as she left the Frenchman staring, I saw the girl who had held a castle in Rome with nothing but her will, the woman who had chosen Ser
Giovanni as her husband, who had defied the Pope himself. I knew that my lady was come to herself again, and that she would fight once more, if only for her freedom, which I dearly hoped would also
be mine.
So we returned to the Palazzo Numai, where the Countess immediately set about tumbling the bundle of silks on the bed.
‘What age is the Duke, Mora, would you say?’
‘Four or five and twenty, madam, I should think.’
‘Hmmm. Have we a looking glass?’
‘The Duke has thought of everything. Look, here, madam. And brushes, and creams.’
‘Was anything saved from the
farmacia
?’
‘I believe not.’
My lady regarded her face ruefully in the glass, a beautiful little thing with a silver handle set with lapis lazuli.
‘Then this is all I have, little witch. We must make the best of it.’
‘I could have some things sent, madam, from the kitchens. Perhaps the receipt for the face, with the chicken broth and the borage? We need only boil it.’ I was almost laughing, I was
so relieved to have her back.
‘My face can shift for itself. I had in mind—’
I understood.
‘
Uxare de luxsuria
?’ It was one of my invented names, we had used it before. ‘ I could make that . . . I need the blood of a wild boar, though. Cantharidin, strong
wine.’
She giggled. ‘Oh, but you are bold, little witch! You would be conjuring, even now?’
‘I will be careful, very careful.’ I would do anything to help her.
‘Hurry then. And water for my bath, olive oil. And salt and rosemary for my teeth, be quick. What is the time?’
‘About six, madam.’
‘Then have the things sent and make it quickly, look there’s a basin, you can do it here. And tell the maid that I accept Monsieur le Duc’s offer to sup with him, in an hour or
so.’
*
I accompanied the Countess to Valentino’s rooms, still dressed in my dark gown. When we came to the door I was shaking, breathless. How could I tell my lady that I was
come to the end of my dreams? I could not help the feeling that it was not the Countess of Forli Valentino was waiting for, but me.
The sala of the old palazzo was empty. It was less fine than I had known at the Rocca, but it had been prepared carefully, with the Duke’s own furnishings. I heard that when he travelled
he even took his own privy with him, made from solid silver, in a curtained litter, and the Countess giggled again like a girl when I told her that and said she hoped we would not be seeing that
this evening. She was beautiful again, her thinness making her seem younger than her thirty-seven years, and I had arranged her hair loosely in a gold-looped filet so that it hung away from her
temples, over her back, showing warmly against the white of her skin in a low cut mantle the colour of flame. I wondered whether she had picked that out on purpose, to remind Valentino of what he
had brought her to. The room smelled of spiced incense, warm and soothing; the fire was built up with sweet cherry wood. My lady arranged herself carefully on a settle, spreading out her gown.
‘Monsieur le Duc would keep me waiting, Mora?’
‘Not at all, madam.’
I started. The deep shadow beside the fireplace resolved itself into a figure, a tall man, and as he stepped forward into the light I saw that his own clothes were black again, exquisite Spanish
velvet, even his hands encased in fine gloves. When he raised the Countess’s hand to his lips I caught the glint of a jewel over the leather on his right hand, a huge ring in plain gold, set
with the great Riario ruby.
‘It looks very well, Monsieur le Duc, I must admit,’ remarked my lady composedly.
‘The spoils of war, madam.’ For the first time I heard the sibilant hiss of Castilian beneath his Italian.
He nodded for the servants to leave, but my lady caught at my sleeve.
‘I prefer that my slave remain here with me, sir.’
‘As a chaperone, madam?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then the girl may serve us.’
I had the philtre in my sleeve. The dishes were set along the table, the same plate I had seen in the days of our captivity, chased with the flames of the Borgia sun. I took the lids from a
serving of partridge with raisins and another of hare in wine. I filled a plate for the Countess and set it before her, and took up another, curling my hand back to pull out the phial. The Countess
was speaking of Rome, of the changes in the city since she had lived there, as smoothly and casually as if she were entertaining in her own rooms at the Rocca. I had the cork out and was set to tip
the mixture into the juices and wine on the plate when I felt the grip of leather on my wrist. I had not even seen his hand move.
‘You mistake me, Countess? Or perhaps this is some sort of joke. You would seek to poison a Borgia? Disappointingly amateur.’
He pronounced it the French way, sardonically drawling, but the vice on my wrist was crushing the bone and I recalled the speed with which his blade had found the throat of the bounty hunter. I
tried to control the trembling that began again in me, knowing he had the right of it if he put his dagger in my breast. I dared not glance at the Countess, but I spoke to him quickly in
Castilian.
‘Forgive me, sir, my lady knows nothing of this. I made it myself, it’s harmless, sir.’
My lady was counterfeiting shock and confusion, perhaps a little too much.
There was a slight, a very slight, loosening of the tension on my arm.
‘You are Spanish?’
‘From Toledo, sir. This is nothing, I swear to you.’
My lady adjusted her expression to the placidity of perfect innocence.
‘You would have me believe that? I could slit your throat.’
I was desperate to pull away, but he could have killed us both before I was halfway to the door. And I knew he would do it.
‘I’ll swallow it myself, sir, look.’
The fingers relaxed, drawing caressingly over the underside of my wrist. I felt a contraction deep inside me, for a moment the room lurched and the flames of the fire rose high in his black
eyes. He was looking into my face. I saw only him.
‘Do it then.’
I took it down neat in one burning swallow.
‘And its purpose?’
‘To make you kind, sir. To make you look well on my poor lady.’
‘Stay over there. I will watch you as we dine. If you are ill, you will die, you know that?’
‘I understand, sir. Thank you, thank you.’
‘And we will see if your lady can make me kind nonetheless, shall we?’
I watched an hour in the shadows while the drug worked on me. Or perhaps it did nothing, perhaps it was that slight, lazy touch of his fingers that made my heart pound and my lips moisten. I
could not tear my eyes from his face, from his throat as he swallowed his wine, from the blood that came in stars to his high cheekbones, from his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth. When the
Countess rose to her feet and made him a curtsey, I stepped forward to assist her from the room, but my body had become a stream, I could get no purchase on the floor.
‘Your slave sickens.’
‘I believe not, sir. She is a good girl, but she knows nothing of medicines. She was only foolish, and I will leave you to teach her better.’
The doors closed behind her. She had left me to him. She knew what I had done, she knew what was in the phial, and she had left me to him. It was not I, but she, who knew how things would come
out.
‘Come.’
I staggered and he held out an arm to help me.
‘You see, you sicken. I should call my men. Or cut your hand off myself.’ But the danger had gone from his voice.
‘I am not sick, sir,’ I managed to whisper.
‘I have seen you before.’
My head swam with visions, of that night of fire, his hand on my arm, the red gleam of the ruby, of all the nights I had woken to him. I saw two forgotten bundles of blood and rags, my useless
charms. My red dress, my mother’s stitching above my heart, wish, desire.
Iron, to bind a demon.