Sanchia was unbearably moved. “You don’t have to tell me this, Marco.”
“Yes, I do. I like and admire you and want you to understand why I seem to be callous to your own needs.” Marco shrugged. “We will say no more about it.” He started to turn away. “She’s becoming restless. I must return to her.”
“Marco.” Sanchia hesitated. “You said it wasn’t easy for you. Why did you decide to stay here with her?”
“But you don’t understand. It was too late for me.” His smile held sadness as well as sweetness. “And though I know summer will never come, it’s not every man who’s privileged to live in eternal springtime.”
Sanchia watched him walk away from her and heard Bianca’s laughing greeting as he came near. A slanting beam of sunlight struck through the leafy branches of the oak tree and surrounded them in a pool of radiance as Marco pulled back the rose garlanded swing. Then, gently but strongly, he pushed Bianca forward so that she left the earth and soared toward the heavens.
“A message?” Borgia asked as he turned away from the window to look at Damari. “Why is it necessary for me to write to my father?”
“A mere precaution.” Damari smiled ingratiatingly. “I believe I’ve found a way to obtain the Wind Dancer with absolutely no expense to you or His Holiness. But there’s a certain risk that all of us might be less than adored by the populace should the method become known. Of course soldiers such as ourselves can dispense with the love of the masses, but a pope must be more careful.”
“I’m sure your consideration for my father’s position will be much appreciated.” Borgia dropped onto a chair and looked up sardonically at Damari. “However, he can be persuaded to take a few chances if the rewards are great. What is to be the point of this message of mine?”
“Word has come to me that there are certain conditions prevailing in the small village of Fontana that would aid us in our purpose.” Damari began to speak quickly and persuasively, outlining his plan with clear, stark phrases. It took only a few minutes and then he fell silent, waiting for Borgia’s response.
Borgia was also silent, thinking. Finally, he nodded slowly. “It could accomplish our purpose. Though it offers a certain danger to you.”
“I’m willing to take the chance. As I told you, my lord, I believe in my own destiny.”
“You would have to believe very strongly to joust with fate in this fashion. However, as I said, it might possibly work.”
“There’s no question about it.” Damari tried to keep the eagerness from his voice. “Naturally, if you consider the means too dangerous for you or His Holiness, I’ll yield to your judgment. But I can do this, my lord.”
“The sheer boldness of the plan endears it to me.” Borgia nodded. “I’ll write to my father and put the scheme before him.”
“Immediately? Time is of the essence, as you can see.”
“At once.” Borgia stood up and moved to the bellrope across the room. “I’ll send a messenger with instructions to wait for an immediate reply. You’ll stay here at Cesena until word comes with my father’s approval.”
“Do you think he’ll give his approval?”
Borgia smiled. “I can be very persuasive, too, when I wish.”
Damari was reassured. Borgia wanted the statue enough to take the risk, and everyone knew his influence over his father was growing stronger with every passing day.
“Perhaps you could emphasize the legendary powers of the Wind Dancer?”
“No need to prod him. He’s already mad to have it. In his last communication to me he was babbling about some equestrian statue at the Ponte Vecchio in Florence where Buondelmonti was slain and supposedly started the feud between Guelph and Ghibelline. He’s sure our fate rests with the Wind Dancer.” Borgia sat down at the desk and drew out a piece of fine parchment from the middle drawer. “No, he’s eager enough to possess the statue, but he’s an old man and grows cautious with his years. I must stress that your plan can be accomplished without any real danger of discovery of his part in it.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And your plan is not quite complete, Damari. I can add a few embellishments that will better please my father and myself.” He picked up his quill pen and dipped it in the onyx inkwell. “You’re right. Were my father’s part in the scheme to overcome those at Mandara become known, he could be forced from the Vatican.” He began to write. “Therefore there must be no knowledge of it.”
A lackey came into the room in answer to Borgia’s summons and he said without glancing up, “I want a messenger at once to take this to His Holiness.”
Damari leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, a smile of satisfaction on his face. It was truly a brilliant plan and one that would bring him immense enjoyment. What a pity he must wait for word back from that doddering old villain in Rome. He had been tempted to proceed with the venture without informing Borgia but had thought better of it. Both Borgias must be fully involved, fully committed.
“You’re very pleased with yourself.” Borgia had looked up and was gazing at him with a faint smile. “And well you should be. I could not have thought of a more effective stratagem myself.”
“High praise, Magnifico.”
“Truth.” Borgia began writing again. “I had a young Florentine as my guest here this winter who would appreciate your ingenuity as much as I. Unfortunately, he’s been recalled by the Signory. At the earliest opportunity, I must remember to introduce you to Messer Machiavelli.”
Lion was watching her again.
After that first quick glance at him Sanchia averted her eyes and turned to smile at the younger Della Rosa. “I’ve never seen such a magnificent scene.” She waved a sweeping hand around the great hall, indicating the chandeliers blazing with hundreds of candles, the richly garbed guests, the liveried lackeys rushing back and forth filling silver goblets. “So much color. And the music …”
“You speak as if you’ve never attended a festivity of this nature before,” Bernardo Della Rosa said. “It’s true that Lady Caterina presides splendidly over the table, but I’ve seen much more lavish food in Ferrara, and this music is merely tolerable.”
“It seems wonderful to me.” Sanchia added simply, “And it’s true that I’ve never attended such a gathering before. This whole past week has been like a marvelous dream.” She threw back her head and laughed joyously as she put her goblet to her lips and drank deeply. “And I think you lie when you say the music is not excellent. Surely no musicians this side of heaven could make sweeter sounds, Bernardo.”
He gazed in bemusement at her luminous face before admitting, “Perhaps I was overcritical. In Ferrara the musicans are—”
“I don’t want to hear about Ferrara. I want to think only about Mandara and the music and—” She hurriedly set her empty goblet on the tray of a passing servant. “The pavane. Escort me to the floor, Bernardo. I should like to dance.”
“You always want to dance.” Nevertheless he set his own goblet down on the table next to him and took her hand. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that you also never danced before you came to Mandara? You must have led a very sheltered life in Florence. Were you brought up in a convent?”
“Not exactly.” She wondered what he would say if she told him the truth. She could imagine the distaste on his face and his instant withdrawal. Sanchia Salmano of good family, daughter of a kinswoman of the illustrious Lady Caterina’s, was acceptable for flirtation and light-hearted dalliance but the slave-thief, Sanchia, would be instantly ostracized. Still, she refused to dwell on such thoughts now. After she left Mandara, she knew, there would be no more days of richness and splendor, so she must enjoy every moment.
They joined the ladies and gentlemen on the floor and began to tour the hall in the stately steps of the pavane. It was not Sanchia’s favorite dance. but the music was lilting, the movements rhythmic, and Bernardo Della Rosa was staring at her as if he thought her beautiful.
Lorenzo was suddenly before her in the set
. “You look enchanting tonight. A veritable Circe. You should always wear green.”
“I’ve never seen you dance in public, Lorenzo.” She glanced down at her jade green velvet gown with its cream satin undershift embroidered in shimmering gold thread. “And you should recognize this gown. You gave the seamstress every detail you wished to see in the execution of it. Do you not remember those first days at Mandara?”
“But the conception palls before the realization. You glow like a torch.” He paused. “But I’d hood my flame when I smiled at young Della Rosa if I were you. I don’t like the look on Lion’s face.”
“I like Bernardo. He makes me feel young. I’ve never had a chance to dance or play games before.” She made a face. “Don’t harp, Lorenzo. I’m happy tonight.”
“I don’t know why I’m bothering to try to save you. It would suit me very well to have Lion lose his patience with the game the two of you have been playing all week.” He pointed his toe and led her forward with faultless grace. “But I find I’m reluctant to expose you to needless violence. Is that not peculiar?”
“Very peculiar.” She cast a swift glance to the corner where Lion stood. Someone had approached him and he was no longer looking at her. Relief streamed through her, and she was immediately angry at herself. Lion could not hurt her by watching her, which was all he had done since that first evening in the garden. Caterina had kept her surrounded and occupied every waking moment of the last week and made sure she was escorted to Bianca’s chamber each night. “But you need not be concerned. Lion has not—” She inhaled sharply as Lion glanced up and met her gaze across the room.
The color flamed in her cheeks and she looked away.
“You see?” Lorenzo asked softly. “Do not anger him more or he will snap, Sanchia.” He smiled. “But perhaps that’s your aim in dallying with Della Rosa. Perhaps you’re weary of being without the sport Lion introduced to you.”
“No!” She smiled determinedly. “I do not miss him. I do not want … Oh, go away, Lorenzo. Tonight I will be happy and pretend I have no more worries than those pretty girls sitting together near the hearth and giggling at everything one of them says.”
“As you command.” He shrugged. “But you’re not like them. In a fortnight you’ll be bored with this masquerade. You’ve dealt too long with reality to be tolerant of make-believe.” The next moment the music signaled a change of set and Lorenzo was gone. Bernardo once more took her hand.
She would not think of Lorenzo’s words. He was wrong. She had no wish for Lion to approach her and it certainly was not lust she was feeling toward him. She carefully squelched every thought that came to mind of their time together, and every day she was drawing farther and farther away from him. Soon she would not even notice whether he was staring at her or not.
The music stopped with a little flourish and she turned to Bernardo with a smile. “That was splendid. Now will you go ask them to play the moresca? That’s so much more lively.”
Bernardo nodded and started to move across the hall to where the musicians sat in the gallery.
“Hold.” Lion was beside them. “You can dance later. It’s time to sit down to supper.” He smiled mockingly. “We mustn’t spoil my mother’s arrangements. I’m sure she’s planned something spectacular.”
Bernardo frowned. “But there’s been no announcement.”
“There will be.” Lion signaled across the room to a servant and a gong was immediately struck. He turned to Sanchia. “Permit me to take you to your chair.”
“She’s promised me that honor, my lord,” Bernardo said quickly.
Lion ignored him as he took Sanchia’s hand and led her toward the table.
“But Lord Andreas, I was given—” Bernardo broke off as Lion turned and fixed him with a cold stare and then continued lamely, “I only thought not to deprive your lovely wife of your escort.”
“My wife has an escort and, as you see, Madonna Sanchia has an injured hand.” He turned and looked down at Sanchia before adding silkily, “As her host, I feel it my duty to share my trencher with the poor lady and help her in any way I can.”
“I need no help.” Sanchia moistened her lips as she tried to withdraw her hand. “I’ve learned to make allowances for my clumsiness.”
“See how she protests?” Lion shrugged. “What a truly noble lady she is to struggle in silence with her infirmity. But I really can’t allow her to sacrifice herself.”
He seated Sanchia in a chair at the long table on the dais and then sat down beside her before motioning Bernardo away with a wave of his hand. “Enjoy your meal, Della Rosa.”
Bernardo hesitated and then turned and stalked down to a chair at the far end of the table.
“You go too far,” Sanchia said between her teeth. “Do you want to cause a scandal? What will everyone think?”
“Why, that I’m a gracious host aiding my guest. What else should they think? Bianca is clearly not missing my attentions.”
Sanchia cast a glance down the table where Bianca and Marco were in animated conversation.
“And your mother?”
Lion glanced down the table at Caterina and met her glare with a bland smile.
“She will ignore us politely once she becomes accustomed to the idea, and her guests will follow her example. She has, after all, been expecting it for more than a week.” He turned and dipped his hands in the basin of rosewater offered by a lackey and then dried them on the white linen towel offered by a second servant. “As you have, Sanchia.”
“I haven’t expect—” she trailed off as she met his gaze. She wouldn’t lie. She had expected him to approach her at any time and, when he had not done so, the tension and anticipation had grown to an unbearable magnitude. “I had little time to think about you.”
“Because you were playing with that fool Della Rosa.” His lids veiled his eyes as the lackey set a silver server of soup before him and then moved to serve Sanchia. “Do you think him comely?”
“He’s handsome enough.” Sanchia added defiantly, “And he has a lovely voice. He’s going to favor us with a song later.”
“Intelligence, beauty, and talent.” He picked up his spoon. “And he seems to be enchanted by you. Tell me, do you seek a husband, Sanchia?”
“You know that he would never marry me.”
“I’m not so sure. My mother would like to marry you off, and I’m sure she’d managed to scavenge a decent dowry for you even if it meant selling her jewels.”
Sanchia laughed uncertainly. “You’re jesting.”
“No, but I’m glad the idea amuses you.” He smiled as he lifted the spoon to his lips. “Because I doubt if your bridegroom would live to make it to the chapel.”
She stiffened, her hand clenching the handle of the spoon.
“And if he did, he’d be a cuckold before nightfall. So I’d really not entertain the thought of marriage, if I were you.” He paused. “You’re not eating. At least try the soup. It’s truly delicious.”
She automatically lifted her spoon to her lips. She tasted nothing.
“You’re not speaking. Why is that? You chattered unceasingly with that prancing coxcomb.”
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why are you trying to hurt me?”
“Did it not occur to you that I, too, could be hurt?” His tone was low but savage. “You said you had a liking for me. I thought you might even—” He was silent for a moment. “Don’t talk to me about hurt.”
“You forced me to come to your mother.”
“I used no force.” His left hand had been resting on the table. Now it clenched into a fist. “It was no easy thing for me to show restraint and gentleness with you. All my life I’ve known only force and the prizes force brings. I wanted something different with you. I wanted your trust.”
She didn’t know what to say. Sympathy, guilt, fear, assaulted her in an overwhelming tide, deluging her thoughts, drowning her voice. She could only say, “It’s dangerous to trust those who have
power over you.”
“It’s more perilous to flaunt those who hold that power.” His fist slowly relaxed and he glanced down at Sanchia’s hand resting on her lap. “What a prettily decorated splint. That looks like Bianca’s touch.”
“It is. She used the ivory ribs of an old fan and sent Marco to the seamstress to get strips of the velvet with which my gown is made. Then Bianca fashioned these pretty little bows from those strips. It was very kind of them.”
“Oh, yes, they’re both exceptionally kind. Finish your soup. The second course is about to be brought in.”
“I have finished.” She watched numbly as the lackeys collected the soup tureens and with equal disinterest as a parade of lackeys entered the hall with a variety of meat dishes dressed to perfection. Under any other circumstances she would have been as enthralled as the other guests at the sight of roast boar garnished with apples and roses, mouth-watering peacock and, finally, a towering pastry likeness of the castle of Mandara itself, complete with battlements and a miniature garden. The display was met with exclamations and applause as the lackeys proudly toured the hall before repairing to the long carving table on the far side of the room to strip the dishes of their culinary magnificence and carve them to be served. Meanwhile other lackeys were bustling around the table with fresh basins of rosewater and pouring more wine until the trenchers of carved meat and gravy were brought to the dais.
As was the custom, there was one trencher for every two people, and Sanchia found herself staring down at the trencher placed between Lion and herself with dismay. In spite of her claim, it was going to be very difficult to manage knife, spoon, and bread with any measure of dexterity. She started to reach for her knife but Lion stopped her.
“It will be quicker if I feed you,” Lion said as he held up the small piece of bread. “Open your mouth.”
She found herself opening her lips and taking the bread and then a bit of meat and then bread again. His feeding her was excruciatingly intimate. She wished desperately to have the meal over and done with.