The Scarlet Contessa

Caterina pushed her way forward until we stood just behind the camerieri. When we finally made our way through the open door, she let go a sigh of relief at the rush of warmth emanating from the bodies of some three hundred faithful. At the front of the church, near the altar, scores of empty chairs awaited the duke and his party; most of the worshippers were obliged to stand and crane their necks as the duke passed by.

At the instant Galeazzo set foot inside, the choir, situated at the back of the sanctuary, burst into song, and a valet ran forward to relieve the duke and his companions of their cloaks. As the duke handed off his cloak, I saw he was dressed in a handsome doublet, the left half of which was gleaming watered white silk embroidered with tiny gold fleur-de-lis, the right of lush crimson velvet. His leggings were also of velvet—crimson for the left leg, white for the right.

I was not surprised to see that he sported his family’s heraldic colors, but I was startled indeed to see that he wore no armor. It was the first time I ever saw Duke Galeazzo appear in public without a breastplate. Perhaps he shied from wearing metal so close to his skin in such cold weather, or perhaps it was an issue of vanity and the breastplate did not suit his fine new doublet; I will never know.

Beside me, Caterina let go a little gasp of pride, tinged with impatience, at her father’s appearance. As we women handed off our cloaks, I saw why she was so eager for the duke to take note of her: her gown was made from the very same fabrics, with the same gold embroidery upon the white watered silk—a clever Christmas surprise for her father.

As the duke and his company followed the bishop down the center aisle, the rows of worshippers bowed, rippling like wheat in the wind. I kept an eye on Caterina; though she bore herself proudly, her gaze was riveted on her father and those surrounding him. She was seeking an opportunity, I knew, to get the duke’s attention.

Midway to the altar, her opportunity came. Santo Stefano was very old, though not so old, it was claimed, as one great old stone abutting the sanctuary floor. Planted in the very center of the church, this large stone was unpolished and unremarkable, but it was nothing less than the Point of the Innocents, where, it was said, the blood of the innocent infants slain by King Herod had been spilled.

Galeazzo paused in mid-conversation and step to glance down at the stone and contemplate it in a show of false piety.

Seeing her opportunity, Caterina pushed forward, surging past the last row of the duke’s chamber attendants and moving directly behind Cicco’s brother Giovanni and the military adviser Ricavo. She was just one row from her father, and when her mother and I simultaneously hissed at her for such outrageous behavior, she glanced over her shoulder at us with a sly grin.

Her mother nudged me and gestured with her chin at her unruly daughter. I was of less importance than anyone else in the procession, so the task fell to me to retrieve her. I whispered apologies as I sidled between pairs of indignant camerieri and finally got directly behind Caterina.

As I touched her elbow, a cry went up—Make room!—and a middle-aged courtier stepped into the aisle just after the bishop passed. He was large and barrel-chested, with powerful shoulders, but one of his legs was withered; he moved haltingly, with a limp, and went down unsteadily on one knee right at the Point of the Innocents, blocking Duke Galeazzo’s path.

His waving pale brown hair, brushed straight back and falling to his shoulders, was thinning at temples and crown; his anxious smile revealed overlarge yellow teeth. The soldiers nearby stiffened, and the big Moor stopped at once and drew his scimitar, but all relaxed upon recognizing Giovanni Lampugnani, a noble with a large estate just outside the city, and therefore bound to swear his fealty to the duke that very afternoon at Porta Giovia. I thought at first he wore the Sforza colors, white and crimson, but the red was far too bright. Lampugnani had long been a friend to Galeazzo, although rumor said the duke had lately taken notice of his comely young wife and vowed to bed her.

“A word, Your Grace,” he said. His grinning lips trembled. It was not uncommon for a petitioner to stop the duke as he made his way to his seat near the altar, but Galeazzo’s curled lip indicated it was unappreciated.

At the same time, Caterina reacted to my touch by surging forward to stand beside the military adviser, who walked immediately behind the duke. Ricavo, gray-haired but solid, glanced down at her with amused surprise.

Caterina reached out to tap her father’s shoulder, and that was when another, younger man stepped out into the aisle to stand beside Lampugnani. His hair and beard were very dark, his long face handsome, his eyes hate-filled and haunted; he was Carlo Visconti, the man whose sister had been raped by Galeazzo. His hand was clutching the hilt of his long, sheathed blade. Like Lampugnani, he wore white and vibrant red.

He was the King of Swords.

I felt myself fall into another world, one where the wrath of God was gathering and roiling, a monstrous cloud about to birth a shattering bolt. With both arms, I pulled Caterina away from her father and held her fast.

“Not now, not now,” Duke Galeazzo hissed at Lampugnani and waved him away just as dark-haired Visconti slipped beside the kneeling man.

Lampugnani began to rise awkwardly and fumbled with his sleeve. Still half crouched, he said distinctly, “Oh, yes, now. Now.”

With the swiftness of a viper, he struck. I did not see him draw the dagger, but I saw it come away bloodied, and heard the duke’s horrified gasp. Beside him, the Mantuan ambassador made a feeble attempt to push the attacker away, but Lampugnani was on fire. He rose to his full impressive height, seized the duke’s arm so that he could not run away, and thrust the dagger to the hilt into Galeazzo’s chest. It came free with a sucking sound, and Lampugnani, his lips twisting with distaste and determination, plunged it into the duke again.

“I am dead!” Galeazzo exclaimed in surprise, and fell straight back against the chest of Orfeo da Ricavo, who tried vainly to support him.

Visconti was on the duke then, too, slashing with his long sword, and was joined by a younger third man. The Mantuan ambassador, Saggi, and Ricavo both began screaming for the guards.

The choir fell silent, its sweet strains replaced by a swell of frantic voices, the sounds of struggle. Bodies surged from the once-orderly rows; the church doors were flung open, and the crowd swelled toward them like a rising tide. The bodyguards were caught in the rush and fought their way back to their master, who had fallen upon the Point of the Innocents.

By then, even Saggi and Ricavo were struggling to flee; the duke’s brothers Ottaviano and Filippo almost knocked me down as they pushed toward the door. I held fast to Caterina and pulled her away from the horror; she was limp and unresisting in my grasp.

The church emptied with astonishing speed. Outside in the plaza, courtiers and the duke’s favorite chamber attendants called for their horses; those who had come on foot, including Caterina’s mother, Lucrezia, were half running over treacherous ice back toward the castle. I paused in the doorway, the stunned Caterina still in my arms, and looked back into the sanctuary.

It was deserted save for the guards and the bloodied corpse of Giovanni Lampugnani, whose lameness no doubt hindered his escape. I watched as the tall, turbaned Moor, one hand pressed to his shoulder to staunch the weeping wound there, knelt over the motionless form of the Duke of Milan. Galeazzo lay sprawled on his back, mouth agape, sightless eyes open, arms flung upward as if in defense. Blood spattered his clean-shaven face and soaked his doublet, now scarlet with no trace of white.

The tower of the duchy had crumbled.

Bona would have said that God had finally delivered His judgment, but that day, I knew she was wrong. God had had nothing to do with it; it had been the work of the King of Swords, who had avenged his sister. I looked upon the duke’s pale corpse and felt exhilarating, if cold, satisfaction.

Justice: it was what I wanted for Matteo, and I would not rest until I found it.

Chapter Seven

Caterina and I returned to Porta Giovia to discover that, although the courtiers on horseback had arrived well ahead of us, none of them had had the courage to speak to Bona, who was still abed. Caterina, who was crying unrestrainedly, not so much from grief, I think, as terror, clung to me as I entered the duchess’s chamber. I wound an arm about her shoulder as though I were her mother, who had so feared retribution from the duke’s enemies that she had deserted her daughter and fled to her husband’s house in the city. Together, Caterina and I went to Bona’s bedside, where Francesca was just taking away a tray.

The curtains were open, and the lady duchess was sitting propped upon her pillows and wrapped in a heavy shawl, her disheveled dark blond hair plaited into a single thick braid. Her broad, ponderous face was drawn, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion, but she straightened at the sound of our footsteps and tried to arrange her features into a more pleasant expression. But at the sight of Caterina, who was pressing her tear-streaked face into my shoulder, Bona paled and grew very, very still.

My voice emerged, cracking and unsteady. “His Grace, the Duke of Milan is dead,” I said. I expected her to shriek, to weep, to be inconsolable.

Bona’s eyes widened, but the rest of her features did not move. A long silence passed between us, punctuated by Caterina’s muffled sobs.

At last Bona’s lips parted and formed a single word. “How?”

“At the swords of assassins,” I answered. “Giovanni Lampugnani and Carlo Visconti. His Grace still lies on the Point of the Innocents.”

“Visconti,” she repeated tonelessly. “Is everyone else safe?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

“Good.” She looked at Caterina and sighed. “Poor child.”

Francesca had set down the tray and was crying, but Bona threw back the covers and swung her thick legs over the side of the bed.

“Francesca,” she said, a bit sharply. The chambermaid stopped her tears and looked up, anguished.

“Call Leonora, and help me get dressed,” she said, and glanced up at me. “And Dea, go and tell Cicco the news if he hasn’t already heard, then bring him to me.”

After speaking with her husband’s top aide, Bona ordered that Galeazzo’s body be washed at Santo Stefano and dressed in a suit of gold brocade. By dusk, the duke’s clean corpse was resting on a table in Santo Stefano’s sacristy. There was no public viewing—or private, for that matter—as the duke had suffered fourteen disfiguring wounds. His mortal remains lay in the sacristy another full day, the twenty-seventh, the day His Grace was to have visited the church of San Giovanni to celebrate the feast of Saint John the Evangelist. All the while, Bona and Cicco worked together to prevent any chance of an uprising against the Sforza dynasty; soldiers were stationed at strategic points along Milan’s empty streets.

Late that night, Bona sent a few trusted servants to Santo Stefano. Under cover of darkness, they stole into the church, removed the corpse, and took it across town to the cathedral known as the Duomo, across the broad street from Porta Giovia. There, they pried open the top of the casket holding the remains of the duke’s father, Francesco Sforza, and laid Galeazzo on top of them.

Many a mass was said later for Galeazzo’s soul, but there was to be no funeral, public or private, no tomb, no monument of stone, no plaque revealing where the duke lay. He had provoked such enmity during his thirty-two years that it was deemed safest to dispense with such things, lest those who despised him take revenge on his corpse.

Bona never came to bed that night, but remained conferring with Cicco and Galeazzo’s other advisers. I undressed in the small closet off the duchess’s chamber and, as I was pulling my nightdress over my head, Caterina’s nurse entered and begged me to come attend her young charge.

I found Caterina huddled on her bed, arms wrapped around her knees, rocking. The slender, long lines of her girlish body showed beneath the fine wool nightgown; her long pale curls had been neatly plaited, though shorter tendrils framed her oval face. Her cheeks were flushed, the lids of her bloodshot eyes swollen. When I entered the room, she glanced up, oddly hopeful, and curtly motioned for her nurse to leave the room. I was surprised to see that the three cots where her attendants slept were empty, though the blankets were disheveled and the sheets still bore the impress of bodies. No doubt their mistress had thrown them from their beds without warning.

When we two were alone, she motioned for me to sit on the bed beside her—an unusual liberty for her to grant—and said, in a voice that was hoarse from weeping:

“You knew my father was going to die. You knew the very moment. How?”

“I don’t know,” I began, but she made an impatient gesture for silence.

“I will pay you.” Her gaze was as naked and earnest as I had ever seen it. “Whatever you want, and I will say nothing to anyone about it. Only you must tell me the secrets of your magic.”

I shook my head. “There is no secret, Madonna.”

Her features contorted with anger. “Or I can have you tortured until you confess everything you know. I could turn you over to the Church as a witch.”

I was too weary from grief to care, and it surely showed in my voice and expression. “Then turn me over to them, Madonna, and I will tell them what I am telling you: I know nothing about magic.” It was true; I had not yet studied Matteo’s ritual. “I saw your father’s death, but I don’t understand how I knew.”

She remained silent. I rose, intending to ask permission to leave, but she motioned sternly for me to sit back down.

“Why did you save me?” Her voice was taut with emotion.

“Why would I not?” I countered.

She drew a long hitching breath and loosed a torrent of childish tears. “Don’t leave me,” she sobbed, and threw her arms about my shoulders, pulling me to her. “Don’t ever leave me, Dea!”

Her distress was so honest, so wrenching, that I returned the embrace. “Hush, Madonna, hush,” I murmured maternally. “I’ll stay as long as you like.”

I soothed her for several minutes until she finally fell quiet, then let loose a hiccup.

“I hated my father,” she said suddenly, her chin resting upon my shoulder. “Hated him.” I waited for her to speak of his heinous crimes, but instead, she added, “He never loved me—not at all. He loved my beauty. I was only a bauble to him, like his jewels or his choir or his mistresses . . . something he would parade in front of others to provoke their envy.”

“That’s not true,” I said perfunctorily, but she drew back and looked solemnly into my eyes.

“It is true, Dea. Men don’t deserve to be loved.”

“I knew one who did,” I said with sudden vehemence.

Caterina did not let me leave her that night. She would not even let me go to one of the cots, but insisted I lie beside her on her soft feather bed. She was exhausted from weeping and quickly fell asleep; I lay listening to her soft breath and thought about the duke, and Matteo, and the mysterious cards.

On the next day, the Feast of Saint John, news of the duke’s assassins arrived in the afternoon and spread swiftly throughout the court. Shortly after the murder, Lampugnani’s body had been stolen from the Church of Santo Stefano by a group of young toughs and dragged over the city’s cobblestones. By the time the crowd was done, the corpse was mutilated beyond recognition, and the citizens took gruesome glee in feeding the tattered remnants to pigs.

Visconti and the third conspirator, a youth named Olgiati, who had gone into hiding shortly after the murder, had been betrayed by relatives and captured; they were awaiting their fates in Porta Giovia’s dungeon. Bona had coolly sentenced them to the wheel, where they would be ripped in two from neck to loins while still alive.

According to her chambermaids, the duchess had not shed a single tear since hearing of her husband’s death. Newly widowed myself, I felt certain grief would soon overcome her, and wanted to be at her side when the storm finally broke. But one of Galeazzo’s attendants informed me that the duchess would not need my services that day; I was at liberty, except for the fact that I needed to gather up my belongings, as the court was to return to Pavia the very next morning.

I headed for my little closet, thinking to make quick work of packing. I had not made it far, however, when Caterina, curiously unaccompanied, came running after me. She was breathless and pale in a high-necked black velvet gown; her hair had not yet been crimped, but hung uncombed and tousled about her shoulders, free of nets or veils. Apparently she had seen me pass by her chambers while her ladies were in the midst of grooming her. I stopped and turned to look askance at her, until I noticed the red velvet box in her hands.

“Where are you going?” she gasped.

There was no point in lying; Caterina would have her way regardless. “To my closet, Madonna,” I admitted. I could scarcely lift my gaze from the box.

She looked about to reassure herself no one could hear us. A pair of launderesses were down at the far end of the loggia, laughing as they collected soiled linens from the rooms and paying us no heed.

“I will go with you,” she said softly.

I bowed to indicate assent. Together we entered the little closet adjacent to Bona’s chamber, and pulled the curtain so we would not be seen. I gestured for Caterina to sit upon the cot I shared with Francesca. She did so, and set the box down upon the mattress with a look of sly complicity.

With a small, triumphant smile, she said, “Ask me no questions; suffice it to say that Bona does not know I have the cards, and she need never know. You may keep them, on one condition.”

“That I read them for you, whenever you wish,” I said slowly. “Madonna, I cannot do that. Bona will discover the theft, and I will be blamed.” I picked up the box and proffered it to her. “This was a priceless gift to her from Lorenzo de’ Medici. It must be returned.”

She rose quickly and stamped her foot, a childishly imperious gesture. “You will obey me!”

She would have added the phrase, or I shall tell my father, but clearly realized that she had lost a great deal of bargaining power. Instead she sputtered and cast about for some new threat to evoke my obedience.

Softly, I responded, “Bona of Savoy is my mistress. I am obliged to obey her.”

“You took the cards from her once before!”

“Yes,” I allowed, “but that was before I saw how it offended her. Surely you have seen it, too, Madonna; she no longer trusts me with her whole heart. And now she is regent of Milan, and obliged to mete out justice. Should she find me to be a thief—with me knowing full well she did not want me to touch the cards ever again—she would be forced to punish me.”

Caterina sat back down and let go a grudging sigh. Without looking at me, she admitted, “That’s true. But . . .” She leaned sideways and lifted the diamond-studded lid, exposing the cards inside. They were facedown, revealing the floral design on the back. I reached for them involuntarily, and Caterina caught my wrist.

“Read them for me,” she said. “Tell me my future.”

The fire flared suddenly as it found a bit of pitch; Caterina and I both started. She laughed nervously, and let go of my wrist.

I took hold of the cards. “Only this once, Madonna,” I warned. My lip still felt the sting of the duke’s blow. “And if you wish me to be honest with you, you must swear that if the future is not to your liking, you will not turn your anger on me. Otherwise, I will confess everything to Bona.”

Caterina nodded eagerly in agreement. I did not trust her, but I also could not resist the cards.

Just as I had for the duke, I mixed the cards thoroughly, instructed Caterina to cut them, then gathered them up and set three cards facedown in front of her.

“The past,” I said, turning over the first card. Four golden goblets were painted against a white background decorated with green leaves and tiny flowers; a banner reading a bon droyt, rightfully, was unfurled across the center of the card. It was a motto often used by the Sforza, indicating that God had made them earthly princes because they were deserving of it.

Words came unbidden to my lips. “The Four of Cups. Luxury. A coddled childhood, and much wealth.” I paused; the shining, gilded cups held something as dark and bitter as the draught Bona had forced me to drink when Matteo had died. “Yet this is not a good thing, but a tarnished past to be overcome. This is a dream from which you must wake.”

I turned over the second card. There again was the image of a barefoot young man in rags, with a walking stick resting upon his shoulder.

“The present,” I said. “Once more, the Fool. The beginning of a long journey, one that will leave she who takes it much changed. The fool loses his naïveté in the end.”

Caterina leaned an elbow upon the desk and frowned down at the image. “Of course, we’re returning to Pavia, but there will be no more journeys after that.”

“Perhaps not immediately,” I countered, “but soon.” I turned over the third card, and announced, “The future.”

I had barely set it down again when Caterina reared up, almost knocking the cards from the bed.

“No!” she whispered harshly. “It’s a trick, all of it! You’re doing this to frighten me!”

She began to weep as I stared down at the image of the Tower, torn asunder by a lightning bolt. Abruptly, I saw myself standing inside a wall made of thick stone; not only Caterina but I, too, dwelled inside the very Tower that would someday be blasted to its foundations. I heard a sudden deafening boom, like thunder, and put my hand against the wall to steady myself. It trembled violently, but did not fall.

A second boom, and the wall quaked harder, but it did not crumble. Not yet.

But in time it would be lost, just as the duchy of Milan had been torn from Galeazzo’s iron grip.

My attention returned suddenly to Caterina; I cast about for whatever truth might calm her. I, too, was shaken. I had not wanted to scare her.

“This does not mean death,” I said honestly. “Not for you. You will not die as your father did, Madonna. But . . .” I gazed at the image, and fancied the ground shook beneath my feet. “This is an upheaval, an end to old ways. This is destruction.”

“I don’t want it!” Tears streaked Caterina’s cheeks as she wrung her hands. “I don’t want any trouble! A bon droyt! A bon droyt! Why does God give us noble blood? Why does He give us power, but refuse to protect us? It isn’t right!”

“Perhaps not,” I answered soothingly. “But the Tower stands a long way from you, and you have a long journey ahead. Perhaps along the way you will find the means to avert whatever disaster this represents.” I paused. “But there is one thing you must know.”

She looked over at me, stricken.

“These are castle walls. Your castle, Madonna. You will rule someday.”

She wiped her streaming eyes and nose upon her black sleeve and settled back onto the cot, faintly mollified.

“You must never leave me,” she said. “Never.”

Though I was sorely tempted to keep the triumph cards, I convinced Caterina to return them to the duchess’s trunk. Early the next morning, on the twenty-eighth of December, the court returned to bucolic Pavia. Bona traveled in a private carriage, accompanied only by Galeazzo’s right-hand man, Cicco, and the military adviser, Orfeo da Ricavo, in whose arms the duke had taken his last breath. I would have made my way on horseback, but Caterina insisted that I sit in the wagon beside her on the long ride home, along with Bona’s children and their nurses. Caterina had frantically demanded that I sleep in her chamber every night, and Bona kindly allowed it, even though I far preferred the duchess’s calm company to that of the duke’s selfish daughter. The weather had finally warmed, and a slow drizzle of rain accompanied us as the wagon’s wooden wheels slung mud on the soggy journey home.