The Scarlet Contessa by Jeanne Kalogridis
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, though I, too, was frightened for her. “But remember, this sacrifice always leads to a wonderful result. In the end, great things are accomplished.” I forced a small smile. “Who knows, Madonna, maybe the sacrifice is leaving me behind, so that you can learn to be confident when I am not with you.”
“Do you think so?” she asked wistfully.
I nodded. She calmed herself and, exhausted, climbed into her bed. I undressed myself, extinguished the lamp, and finally crawled in beside her.
She was not yet asleep. In the darkness, she whispered, in a small voice that belonged to a much younger, less confident girl, “Dea? Could you hold me, just until I fall asleep?”
She had not asked this of me since her father died; the timbre of her voice reminded me of the terrified girl in the cathedral of Santo Stefano whose father had been murdered in front of her eyes.
“Of course,” I answered tenderly.
She rolled onto her side, her back to me. Full of pity, I rolled toward her, facing the same direction, and put my arm over her shoulder. Not three minutes later, much to my gratification, Caterina began to snore.
The day before the count and contessa’s departure, all in the Palazzo Riario worked feverishly to prepare for the months-long journey. By dusk, I had only a few minutes to spare to see Luca; we met in the garden and I kissed him farewell.
He wanted to see me again before dawn to say our final good-byes, and to linger in my arms a time that night, but I was in no mood for either. I wanted to be swift, partly out of a desire to spare myself extra tears.
I resisted all his efforts to make me stay with him as I wished him a safe journey. He was disappointed but understanding.
I resisted weeping that night, although I slept fitfully, wakened by forgotten nightmares that left me with a sense of dread. Someone, I knew, would die as a result of the journey—perhaps Caterina, or even my darling Luca. Either way, the death would lead to transformation, and the birth of an unexpected future.
Chapter Twenty-two
With Caterina gone, my days were filled with playing with little Ottaviano, Bianca, and Cesare in the nursery, as well as replying to correspondence for Caterina with a brief note explaining that Her Illustrious Highness was traveling and could not respond to any requests until her return. These slight duties left me with far too much time to worry about Luca and my mistress.
I received my first letter some two weeks after their departure.
6 August 1481
Dearest beloved,
The count’s bodyguards are reading every letter before it is sent; therefore, I shall keep this brief and try not to disgust them overmuch with my declarations of love. Count Girolamo bids me remind you that you are to show this letter to no one, not even those in the Riario household, and again, to tell outsiders who ask after his destination that he is in the Romagna visiting his new city, Forlì.
At this moment, it is no lie. We arrived in Forlì yesterday. It took us a bit longer than usual to make the journey, as Count Girolamo chose not to take the main road that runs through Florence, but a narrower, less-traveled road leading through the heart of the Romagna.
As we approached Forlì, the terrain grew sweeping and flat; no wonder they grow so much grain here. We passed by field after field of wheat, golden and almost ready for the harvest. The town is small and most definitely not Rome.
Even so, the contessa has charmed the inhabitants thoroughly. In this respect, she is a great help to her husband, who is less comfortable in social situations. The night we set foot in Forlì, there was a fire in one of the kitchens in the royal palazzo. A bad omen, the locals say. Who knows whether they will be right?
There is so much more I could tell you, but I must wait until the happy day I return home to you, and can put my arms around you at last.
Until then, my beloved, I remain your servant,
Luca
8 August 1481
Dear Dea,
We arrived in Forlì a few days ago. The land here is exceptionally flat, but I am looking from the western window of the former duke’s palace at the beautiful Apennine Mountains.
Although the city is rather small, the people here are enthusiastic, and did their best to greet us in a proper manner. We rode through the city gates while young men, all dressed in white, waved palm fronds to welcome us, as though we were Christ entering Jerusalem. By then it was sunset, and most of the citizens lining the narrow streets held up candles, to lovely effect. I wore my new gold brocade dress with silver embroidery, which caught the light nicely.
We were taken to the Church of Santa Croce. A group of Forlivese nobles carried Girolamo from his horse to the altar, where he was duly blessed. Then it was on to our new palazzo, where we were obliged to sit through a sermon from a priest. Only then did Girolamo stand up and announce to all those gathered that he would govern them “as a good father would,” and that he would never require them to pay taxes (since we can live quite comfortably without the revenue).
This provoked cheers from the people inside the palazzo’s chapel with us; the news spread like wildfire in seconds to the commoners standing out on the street below. Their roar of approval was deafening; only a shower of sweetmeats and pastries from the palace windows quieted them a bit.
After that came a ball. I danced for hours while Girolamo sat and watched. Perhaps I danced too long, for I was so tired the next morning, I could not rise until midday. I do not know why this particular pregnancy saps my strength.
Forlì is all right, although I would never want to settle permanently here. I am too used to the pleasures big cities provide, and cannot wait to see Venice. Let us pray that my lord Girolamo has not made his last conquest. I would prefer to rule over larger territory, one with a grand city as its capital.
Please respond at once. I think that a letter written in your hand would soothe my nerves better than anything else; I would wear it on my person during this journey, and be comforted by it.
With affectionate regard,
Caterina
Countess of Imola and Forlì
I wrote back to Caterina at once, telling her of her children’s antics and complaining about the beastly hot weather in Rome. I instructed Caterina to “believe that this letter will keep you from harm, and it will do so.” It was a small lie meant to comfort her.
With the lord and lady both gone, the Palazzo Riario hosted no visitors. Evenings were quiet. I spent them alone in my lady’s bedchamber, pining for Luca while I brought out Matteo’s little diary and tried in vain to decipher it.
I worried, too, about Girolamo’s secret meeting with the Venetians. There could be little doubt that he, too, was not satisfied with such a small, rural possession as Forlì, and sought to use Venice’s military might to further his ambitions.
1 September 1481
Dearest beloved,
Tomorrow we set off on the weeklong ride to Venice. As always, His Illustriousness forbids you from mentioning his destination to anyone.
Out of the entourage that accompanied us from Rome, I alone have been invited to go with the count. Only Her Illustriousness, the Forlivese archdeacon Matteo Menghi, and Ludovico Orsi, an assessor from Forlì, will be allowed to go with us. No one else has been told of our departure.
His Illustriousness obliges me to attend a special feast for the town’s mayor, Luffo Numai, but I have no heart for it. I am well physically, of course, but can think of only you, for I love you more than anything else in this world. Fear not, I will return to you safely, though it will probably not be until the following spring; the contessa was quite uncomfortable during the journey. She now swears that she will not make the entire arduous trip back to Rome, but will instead stop again in Forlì to give birth.
How I love you! I am smitten and can think of nothing but you, and the moment we will be in each other’s arms again.
10 September 1481
Dear Dea,
At last! We arrived in
The city is like nothing I have ever seen; it is true what they say, that it sits upon the sea. To enter it, we were obliged to leave our horses and wagons behind, and board a boat garlanded with flowers and draped in gold fabric. This took us in style to the Grand Canal, and the heavily colonnaded palace of the duke—or Doge, as the people here call him. One side of the stone palace faces the street; the other, the sea, where the water laps at its feet. I do not know how they survive here, as it seems that one large ocean wave could easily carry the whole city away.
At the palace, Girolamo and I were received with as much pomp and celebration as when I first entered Rome. The Doge was waiting to greet us. His demeanor is quite handsome and graceful, and his agility belies his years, but his face, alas! I have seen but one homelier, belonging to that man from Florence who must not be named. To mark his status, the Doge wears a tight golden cap that rises up from the back of his head to form a blunt, fat horn.
The journey here was arduous; perhaps the rocking of the carriage brought it on, but the child in my belly feels exceptionally heavy and has left me more tired than usual. Tomorrow Girolamo has an important meeting and I will spend the day being entertained by the city’s prominent gentlewomen. I hope to see the church and square of San Marco, which is not connected to the city by roads, but stands alone, surrounded by nothing but sea.
The buildings are all very pretty, but they cannot compare to the cardinals’ palaces in Rome. The most beautiful aspect is the play of the light upon the water, which fills the streets with a soft, romantic glow—especially at dusk, when the pale palaces reflect the sunset, bathing all of Venice in golden pink light.
Please respond at once. I feel a sense of foreboding and would be reassured to have another letter from you. I miss your company.
I must sleep now.
With affectionate regard,
Caterina
Contessa of Imola and Forlì
P.S. Girolamo insists I remind you that this letter must not be shared with anyone, including those in our own household, under pain of death. And, of course, when visitors inquire after us, they are to be told that we are in the Romagna. No mention of Venice.
Lonely weeks passed, punctuated by love letters from Luca that I read again and again in private.
Dearest beloved, how I yearn for you . . .
Although heartwarming, his letters were brief and held little description of Venice, with good reason: Count Girolamo kept him enormously busy, which suggested that His Illustriousness was negotiating a contract with the city on the sea. War was surely in the offing.
28 September 1481
Dear Dea,
Back in Forlì again. The respect and goodwill shown us by the Forlivese has been replaced by an air of distrust and unease. Girolamo believes some of them are still plotting the return of the Ordelaffi; Forlì’s former rulers.
As for Venice: I am too tired to describe everything; it shall wait until I see you again . . . if I see you again. Suffice it to say that Girolamo was given numerous awards and privileges, as well as the key to the city. It was hard to leave a grand city for grim little Forlì, but whatever business Girolamo had with the Venetians was resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. I have never seen my husband so cheerful.
Meanwhile, there is the problem of Forlì. In all honesty, I do not feel strong enough to travel; the child inside me seems to drain the life from me, so I am quite inclined to remain and give birth here.
However, neither Girolamo nor I feels safe in Forlì. The day before we were to reenter the city, we were intercepted on the road by a messenger from the mayor, Luffo Numai, and warned to take special care. It seems that certain reprehensible men were planning to slaughter us as soon as we passed through Forlì’s gates.
Girolamo is furious. He wants to capture and torture the assassins, then make their execution a public spectacle. I barely managed to convince him that now was not the time to make an example of any Forlivese, since we have not yet won their hearts. At my suggestion, Girolamo instead announced that food and wine would no longer be taxed.
Privately, though, my husband still chafes; he suspects Lorenzo de’ Medici of being behind the conspiracy to murder him, and he wants to leave Forlì at once. I feel differently; I am no more than six weeks from giving birth, and in truth, I have felt unwell throughout the pregnancy and feel even more so now.
I will try to convince him to remain here, and to let you come at once to assist me during labor. Otherwise, I fear what might happen.
Pray for me.
Caterina
Contessa of Imola and Forlì
The mention of assassination filled me with fear; the triumph cards had indicated that innocent blood would be spilled. I worried terribly as well about Caterina’s health; outside of occasional bouts of morning sickness early in her pregnancies, she had never “felt unwell” when with child.
A fortnight passed without my receiving a letter from anyone; and then, one cold, rainy evening in early November, a messenger arrived and started pounding upon the kitchen door. He sent the scullery maid to fetch me, “owing to an extremely urgent manner regarding her mistress.”
I flew down the stairs and found the messenger standing in the sitting room, his soaked cloak dripping onto the carpet, his hands gripping his equally wet red wool cap.
It was Luca, his hair slicked by the rain and hanging in soggy strands around his face, sunburned and drawn with fatigue. At the sight of him, I cried out in joy and ran to him. We embraced briefly, and he pulled away, his expression somber.
“I have summoned Her Illustriousness’s physician, as well as the midwife. The contessa will arrive in an hour or so,” he said. “You should prepare her bedchamber with water and towels and whatever else women need at such times.”
I put a hand to my heart. “Is she in labor?”
“We have asked her, and she tells us that she does not think so,” Luca answered grimly, “but she is in such severe pain that she cries out from time to time.”
Despite my joy at seeing Luca, I summoned Teodora and we readied the bed, covering the mattress with several old blankets. Luca brought the birthing chair up from storage, as well as a large iron kettle from the kitchen while Teodora and I stoked the hearth and filled the bedside pitcher and goblet with water.
As Teodora was finishing up, I stepped outside to speak with Luca.
We clasped hands as I whispered, “Caterina was feeling poorly and wanted to have the child in Forlì. What happened?”
His expression darkened. “Count Girolamo. He was convinced that, if they remained, he would be assassinated. It was clear that the contessa was too ill to travel, but Girolamo ordered her to come. She rode half the way on a mule, until she could no longer bear the pain of sitting. We put her on a litter, but she was still horribly uncomfortable.” He shook his head at the memory. “I pray God she survives and doesn’t lose the baby.”
“Bastard,” I whispered as my eyes filled with stinging tears. I closed them as Luca responded:
“The count feared for her safety as well. He believed that if she stayed, both she and her child would die. He was solicitous of her during the journey, but you know the contessa; she treated his order as a physical challenge, and would not complain. He and I rode beside her. By the time we crossed the Apennines, she was white and trembling, and a day later, she groaned and slumped in her saddle. She would have fallen to the ground had Girolamo not hurried to catch her.”
I could find no words. We held each other and Luca whispered in my ear of his journey, of the Doge’s proclamation that Girolamo was now an honorary citizen of the realm. Venice would provide troops to help Girolamo wrest Florence from the Medici while Girolamo would provide troops to help Venice seize nearby Ferrara.
In time, the fat, white-haired doctor and somewhat yo
From below came Girolamo’s gruff bass, and a babble of excited voices. I ran down to the second-floor landing and stopped.
Girolamo was ascending the steps. Like Luca, he was bedraggled from the rain, his cloak and cap and hair dripping water, and his face revealed grim, uncommon determination. He took the stairs two at a time while a group comprised of soggy travelers and servants struggled to keep pace with him.
In his huge arms he bore Caterina, limp in his grasp. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted and gray.
I quashed my instinct to run to her, and stepped aside so that the count could make his way swiftly up the third flight of stairs.
I ran after him and arrived just as he set Caterina down on her bed. She was shivering; her belly was hugely swollen, as were her feet and ankles, and her face was bloated.
“Madonna,” I murmured to her. “It’s I, Dea. . . . You’re home at last.”
Her eyelids fluttered, then opened a slit. “Dea,” she breathed, and weakly gripped my wrist to draw me closer. “Dea, it’s really you, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I confirmed, “and everything will be well now.”
She sighed with relief and closed her eyes again, but a second later grimaced and put a hand to her ribs, then let go a piteously weak laugh.
“He loves to kick, this one,” she whispered, rubbing the spot. “He has not given his poor mother a moment’s rest. I think he will take after her.”
Those few sentences exhausted her, and she said nothing more as I stripped her of her damp clothes and slippers, only to find a bundle of my letters to her hidden inside her bodice. The sight of them made me want to weep. How could I have deserted her? I brushed the tears and guilt aside, and steadied myself as I called for a clean chemise.
As soon as I had dressed her, the doctor elbowed me aside.