I took one of his knights. “Do you remember his face?”
“No. Do you remember your bathhouse drunk?”
“I never remember the men I’ve killed.” True. I gave a reminiscent whistle, tapping the carved crown of my white queen. “The one I remember is the woman.” False.
“A woman?”
“A whore,” I lied, making up the details haltingly as though made uneasy by a bad memory. “She tried to rob me, afterward. Everyone tries to rob a dwarf. I fought her; she pulled a little knife out. I got it from her . . .” A shrug. “Women die differently than men.”
A black rook advanced, taking my knight. “Do they?”
I had no idea, and no intention of ever putting the theory to the test. “They do,” I lied, giving a bitter little laugh. “The bitch deserved it, but I still remember her face. Did you ever kill a woman, Your Eminence?”
The question fell into the vaulted room like a drop of water into a pool, spreading outward in silent ripples. There was a barely perceptible pause, and then—
“Careful,” said Cesare Borgia pleasantly, moving his knight. “Your king is in danger.”
I slid my king out of harm’s way. “I take it that is a no?”
“Take it however you wish, little lion man. I will tell you this—women aren’t worth the effort of killing.”
“Some might disagree. Did you ever find that man who staked those whores to the table?”
“As long as the crowds are quiet and do no more muttering about sacrifice to devils, who cares if we find him?”
“I thought you might be burning to find him, Eminence. If only to discover how he came to use your dagger on the last girl.” I had been turning that piece of information over in my mind since I’d first heard it, overheard from Giulia Farnese and her maids. Just a vicious bit of slander, I’d thought at first; no different from any other vicious slander that habitually circulated about the great. But then wildfire rumors overtook the city, and I found myself wondering.
“Ah.” Cesare looked amused, sliding a bishop one square. “You think I did it?”
“No.” I sacrificed a pawn. “You would never be so stupid as to leave your dagger behind to implicate you.”
“Perhaps I was arrogant rather than stupid,” he suggested. “Perhaps I wished to see how far I could go, and still get away with it.”
“An interesting notion.” My mouth was paper dry. “Did the first three girls not garner enough attention?”
“Three?” Bland. “I thought there were only two.”
“Three.” Anna, the first of them. She did appear to be the first, with her four-times-clumsily-slashed throat. No other girls had turned up on tables before her that I could find out. Another girl after that, one I had not even known about, killed a few months later. Then Carmelina’s fruit-seller friend, and finally the girl in the Borgo. And each woman, according to the answers I’d ferreted out from a few quiet chats with the Borgia guards, the idle city constables, the tavernkeepers where the bodies had been found—each woman had died more neatly than the last. Their throats gaping in progressively tidier slashes.
Killing is a skill like any other. Cesare’s words whispered in my ear. It should be practiced until it comes easily.
“On the other hand,” Cesare Borgia said serenely, studying the chessboard, “perhaps my dagger was stolen by some enemy of my father’s, and used to stir up ill feeling against me. Cardinal della Rovere would have sacrificed a whore’s life in an eyeblink, if it would have kept me from getting my red hat.”
“That does seem more likely,” I agreed. It was more likely, so why was I sweating in this cool stone room?
“And either way, why should anyone care?” Cesare shrugged. “They were only whores.”
“Only whores,” I echoed. “What, indeed, does it matter?”
Cesare Borgia’s black eyes found mine over the chessboard. I smiled back. “You aren’t paying attention, little lion man,” he said, and gave a wave of his elegant hand over the board. “I believe the win is mine in six moves.”
“So it is.” I tipped my king with a flick of the finger. “Another game, Your Eminence? And perhaps you will tell me your news from the French and Spanish ambassadors . . .”
We talked lightly, our voices even as I reset the board. Threats from France; apparently their king had threatened invasion to press his claim to Naples. “And from Spain more serious news—Juan has arrived in Barcelona and has already managed to offend everyone. Roaming about the city whoring and fighting and killing stray dogs. I imagine our Holy Father will write Juan an angry letter.”
“Indeed.”
I won the second game. Cesare Borgia rose, stretching lightly like a long-bodied cat. “You fight a good game of chess, Messer Leonello. You play like a Roman—encircling defenses and sudden piercing attacks from the rear guard.”
“You play like a Spaniard, Your Eminence. No retreat, not ever.”
He smiled. I smiled.
“It seems La Bella will not release my father from her clutches until nightfall,” he observed. “How has she not killed him yet?”
The new Cardinal Borgia sauntered out without a further word. The black half mask swung easily from one hand.
I took the ebony-carved bishop from the chessboard, balancing it in my palm. And wondered, with that focused hunter’s thrill I’d first felt in chasing down Anna’s killers, if I had found my third killer after all.
The one in the mask.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
From a tiny spark may burst a mighty flame.
—DANTE
Giulia
See?” I pressed my back against Lucrezia’s, reaching up to level my hand over our heads. “You’re taller than me. You’ve grown since the wedding.”
“Really?” Lucrezia’s narrow little face brightened as she looked down at herself. “I thought my dresses seemed shorter—”
“We’ll add an embroidered band on all your hems,” I promised. “It will give you a few inches to cover your slippers, and make the gowns feel like new.” I turned to the pair of robe makers bustling about my chamber with cloth samples and mouthfuls of pins. “Be sure to refit her bodices too! Extra lacing and another dart under the bust—height isn’t the only place you’re growing,” I told Lucrezia.
She looked down at her modest breasts, which had made a sudden appearance earlier this year and been greeted with rapture. “Not growing fast enough!” she accused them, but gave a happy sigh as the robe makers came forward with samples of figured velvet draped over their arms and began holding up swatches. I liked my chamber best when it was a lovely cozy mess like this: gowns here and gowns there, sewing girls and maidservants picking through the piles like chattering birds, Lucrezia twirling in the middle looking down at herself and dreaming, and of course Leonello carping about something. “I am not a cloak hook,” my bodyguard’s voice complained from his usual corner, flicking a discarded sleeve off his propped boots. “Will you ladies quit draping things on me? Dio.” But his dark looks were no match for all the bustle of needles and pins and silks, and I heard a muttered oath as he went back to his book.
We’d all returned from Viterbo to Rome at the beginning of November, a Rome gone autumn-cool at last so that the wind tugged at the mane of my pretty gray mare as I trotted through the city gates in my ring of guards. Even the palazzo was chilly now, despite the hot coals in the braziers and the heavy shutters over every window, and at night I abandoned my filmy shifts and snuggled into a sable-lined zimarra. Maybe it was just the emptiness of my big bed that made it seem cold. My Pope had sent us on to Rome, but departed himself in a whirl of energy to take care of some papal business in Pitigliano—though the letters he sent me were enough to warm my bones. Rodrigo was all passion and sweetness again, now that I’d given in on the subject of Laura’s name—his way of apologizing for the quarrel we’d had on the subject. Not that he ever would apologize, but powerful men never do say they’re sorry for anything, do they?
> “I really am taller than you!” Lucrezia smiled at me as the robe makers began to measure her hem. “You think I’ll be taller than Sancha of Aragon?”
“The Neapolitan ambassador described her as small-statured.” Lucrezia and I had devoured every bit of news we could gather about Sancha of Aragon: sixteen-year-old bastard daughter to the would-be King of Naples, bride-to-be of little Joffre Borgia, and the marriage link my Pope had devised to bind Naples to his interests. The wedding wasn’t to be announced until Christmas, but rumors flew.
“They say she’s pretty, too . . .” Lucrezia frowned down at her bosom. “And curvaceous!”
“But she’s dark.” I slipped an arm about Lucrezia’s waist, holding up a carved hand mirror to reflect both our faces. “So we two blond beauties can’t possibly be outshone. You must have a new dress for Joffre’s wedding—fresh hems on old gowns are very well for every day, but everyone who is anyone will be there to see Joffre and Sancha married. Pale green silk, I think, with silver brocade sleeves so you look like a mermaid . . .”
Lucrezia’s face brightened in the mirror, but only for an instant. “You think my father will let my Lord Sforza accompany me to the wedding?” she ventured.
“Perhaps you can ask,” I said lightly. “Now, let’s try this gown here with a pair of yellow sleeves—”
“I have asked! He just says my husband is to keep his distance till I’ve properly grown. I have grown. I’m fourteen, and I’m taller than you!”
The maidservants looked at each other, and I shooed them back. Lucrezia made an angry swipe at her eyes with the back of her hand. Leonello turned a page, deaf in his corner, and I went on pulling a yellow silk sleeve over Lucrezia’s arm. “Fathers aren’t always the most keen-eyed when it comes to seeing that their daughters have turned into women,” I murmured, soothing.
“I’m Countess of Pesaro, and I’ve never even shared a roof with my husband, much less a bed.” Lucrezia’s lower lip pushed out. “I’m a married woman, and I’m still living in my father’s household learning French verbs and Greek translations and—and Machaut songs. Everyone laughs at me, I’m sure of it. They think Lord Sforza doesn’t want me—they think he won’t have me in Pesaro with him because I’m ugly, or because I’m bastard-born—”
“Nonsense.” I began tying the silk laces of her sleeve, tugging puffs of gauzy shift out through the fashionable slashes. “I saw him at the wedding; he went round-eyed at the sight of you.”
“Caterina Gonzaga said he was looking at you!”
“Caterina Gonzaga is a goose.” I put a finger under her little chin, lifting it up. “Lord Sforza comes to visit us in a few weeks—then you’ll see. He’ll be too busy staring at you over the table to even know I’m there.” And if he did stare at me, I thought privately, I’d catch myself a convenient cough and take to my chamber to allow the newlyweds a little private conversation over cena.
“He won’t be allowed to stay the night when he visits, will he?” Lucrezia fiddled with her cuff. “With me, I mean.”
“No,” I admitted, picking up the other yellow sleeve and moving to her other side. I’d already had quite explicit orders from His Holiness on that point. Keep that Sforza bravo out of my daughter’s bed, he’d written me from Pitigliano. I want the marriage unconsummated a little longer—I don’t care if he’s hot for her; he can damned well wait.
“Can’t you ask Father for me?” Lucrezia pleaded. “Ask him to let me be a proper wife?”
“I’ll ask,” I promised, but I didn’t hold out much hope that Rodrigo would listen. My Papal Bull was as stubborn as a bull too, sometimes.
On the other hand, so was his daughter. Her lower lip pushed out as she looked at herself in the hand mirror again. “I’ll have a new dress for my husband’s visit, too,” she decided. “Something wicked—something older. I’ll make him so mad for me that he’ll carry me off to Pesaro on his horse the next morning, no matter what my father says.”
“If he does, he’ll be promptly stabbed by papal guards,” Leonello said from behind his book.
“Then he’ll die and I’ll join a nunnery,” Lucrezia said darkly. “I’d rather be a nun than have Sancha of Aragon laugh at me for being a virgin wife.”
“She’ll be the virgin wife,” I said, making a warning face at my bodyguard behind Lucrezia’s back. “She’ll be marrying Joffre, after all, and he’s a dear boy but he’s just a child and I doubt he’ll be able to do much between the sheets when they’re bedded down on their wedding night. And if she’s a virgin wife too, then she won’t dare laugh at you for anything.”
“Really?” Lucrezia’s little blond head twisted to look at me on her long neck—one of her best features. Her features were small, her eyes blue-gray rather than pure blue, and her skin prone to spots, but that swan neck made every turn of her head graceful.
“Really,” I told her. “And if you really want to look older and a little wicked for Lord Sforza, I think we can manage that. Let’s see . . .” I rummaged among the cloth samples. “Dark green silk . . . too sallow on you. Yellow velvet, no, too close a color to your hair. Pink figured brocade, definitely not. Too girlish . . .” I had an entire team of robe makers on hand now who did nothing but dress me, and enough cloth samples and embroidery patterns on hand for a hundred gowns. The respectable women of Rome didn’t want to be seen talking with me, or even walking on the same side of the street as me, but they certainly took an interest in everything I wore. And if I was going to set the fashions I might as well do it right, so I put a great deal of thought these days into the design of each new dress—not like the days when I just threw on anything that was pretty. I could certainly put all that new expertise to Lucrezia’s benefit. “We want a new image for you,” I announced. “Something to show you’ve grown up. You’re still too young for black, but perhaps a midnight blue . . .” I tossed a fine lightweight French silk over her shoulders. “Yes, that’s it.”
“Cut to here?” Lucrezia tugged down her neckline.
“Let’s say here.” I moved her bodice back up. “But with black French lace at the edge; that will make it quite wicked. I do hope the French won’t invade; then we wouldn’t be able to get any more of this lace . . .”
“God forbid you ladies be left without lace,” Leonello said behind his book, but we paid him no mind. I sat Lucrezia down and spent an hour pampering her after the robe makers left, plucking her brows into perfect arches and showing her how a little discreet powder would help cover the red spots that sometimes appeared on her skin. “I think if you wear pale green to Joffre’s wedding, I shall wear sea green. Nobody can compete with a pair of stunning blondes dressed to match!”
“I don’t really want Sancha to be ugly,” Lucrezia confessed, restored to her usual sunny good humor. “Joffre deserves a pretty wife.”
“Of course he does,” I agreed. “But she won’t be prettier than you; it is simply not possible. Now, make a sort of fish expression—suck your cheeks in, that’s it—and I’ll show you how to rouge your face so your cheekbones look higher. Just a dab, mind you, we don’t want His Holiness noticing. He’ll excommunicate me for painting his daughter up like a courtesan. No use telling a man that nice fair skin like ours needs a little color. Men don’t know anything about these things, much less men of the cloth . . .”
“That was kindly done,” Leonello told me when Lucrezia finally scampered off, rosy and glowing, to practice her dancing, since I’d pointed out that even her father wouldn’t forbid her dancing with Lord Sforza.
“Was it kindly done?” I folded my arms along my chair’s high carved back, gesturing the rest of the maidservants out. I was suddenly tired of feminine bustle. “I doubt it.”
“That child’s lived her life among all these overbearing Spanish brothers and an even more overbearing Spanish father. Not to mention that bitter old bitch of a mother, which is worse than no mother at all.” Leonello looked up at my painted ceiling. “No sisters, no women in her circle except Madonna Adr
iana, who takes her father’s side in everything. But now she has you, the most glamorous woman in Rome, and you could brush her away like a tiresome puppy. But you don’t. Instead, you help her to be a woman.”
“Not a real woman.” I pillowed my cheek on my folded arms. “I can’t help her be a wife, not a proper wife the way she wants to be. But then I’m hardly a proper wife myself, so how could I ever help her with that?”
“Beg His Holiness very prettily on those dimpled knees of yours?”
“How do you know my knees are dimpled?” I asked, momentarily distracted.
“I overheard one of the guardsmen paying your maid Taddea five scudi just to hear what you looked like in the bath.”
“I’ll have a word with Taddea,” I said, but without much heat. My maids liked me, gossiped with me, even confided in me, but they all took shameless advantage of me: pilfering my cosmetics, stealing kerchiefs and shoes and other small things from my wardrobe they thought I wouldn’t miss, selling locks of my hair for love tokens. I pretended not to notice, most of the time. How could I blame them for making a bit of extra coin when they had the opportunity? I’d been born to a good family and a life of ease, but my maids had only their wages (and my mother-in-law paid the skimpiest wages in Rome). If Pantisilea stole a vial of my perfume to attract yet another lover, or if Taddea made a few extra coins from describing how I looked in the bath, they were welcome. “I’ll have a word with the Pope too,” I added. “I’ll intervene for Lucrezia with him, not that it will do any good. His mind’s made up. He doesn’t want the marriage consummated.”
“I suppose not.” Leonello marked his place in his book, setting it aside. “If Lucrezia stays a virgin, he can always annul the marriage in favor of a better one.”
“If Lucrezia stays a virgin she’ll remain His Holiness’s daughter, not Sforza’s wife.”
“So that pretty head of yours is good for something besides growing massive amounts of hair.”