The Scarlet Contessa by Jeanne Kalogridis
Inside the chamber, Cesare Borgia stood dressed in black velvet, his arms folded in disapproval as he glared across the room at an older, meticulously groomed and uniformed Frenchman, who glared back. It was clear that neither man acknowledged the superiority of the other; the hostility between them was palapable. Borgia was accompanied by a trio of bodyguards, the Frenchman by one of his officers and a woman.
It was Caterina, in her best gown, now torn and covered in dust—the dust, I realized, of Ravaldino’s shattered walls. The golden heart around her neck was gone. Yet she was very much alive and unharmed, and keenly interested in the argument Borgia and the Frenchman were having. Even defeated, she was not bowed, but listened with an imperious, confident air; despite my pain, I smiled with joy to see her.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, and Captain Bissey,” Numai interrupted as we entered. “This is the prisoner in question.”
Captain Bissey lifted a graying brow and turned his gaze on me. He was much taller than Borgia, with a long, hawkish nose and tiny lips. “My God!” he exclaimed in horror. “This is grotesque barbarism! It is horrible enough to imprison a woman, but this one you have tortured! A disgrace! Were His Majesty King Louis to learn of this, he would charge you with a crime!”
Caterina saw me at last, and put a hand to her mouth; I watched as her eyes filled with tears.
“No, no,” I rasped. I wanted to wave my hand to stop her from crying, but pain stopped me from lifting it. “I am all right, Madonna. Everything is all right. . . .”
Cesare continued his argument, his tone smooth yet cutting. “I am Italian,” he said, “and as difficult as it may be for you to believe, Captain, our laws are not yours. I am the king’s ally, but not his subject; I have committed no crime.”
“And I am the bailli of Dijon,” Bissey thundered, “and therefore King Louis’s representative when it comes to legal matters. I am also responsible for seeing that women and children are not taken prisoners of war, but protected and well cared for until they can be returned to a place of safety. The lady Caterina will not be harmed or imprisoned. And this poor lady . . .” He gestured at me.
“Arrangements have been made for the Lady Dea,” Caterina interjected, her eyes still taking in my injuries, her expression one of grief and outrage for my sake. “She is guaranteed safe passage as a condition of my surrender.”
“She is indeed,” Bissey said pointedly to Cesare. “One of your couriers, Your Grace, waits outside now to escort her. Although, seeing what you have done to her, I doubt she can mount a horse.”
“Let her go,” Borgia said in a bored tone, and waved Numai and the guard—and me—off. “She’s quite mad. I have no use for her.”
I struggled not to fall as Ser Luffo and the guard turned toward the door. I turned my head to say farewell to Caterina, and she strode up to me and gently cupped my face in her hands, then touched her forehead to mine.
“I chose the Hanged Man,” she whispered. Her eyes were bright with tears, but radiant, her voice tremulous.
“As did I,” I breathed.
“They breached Ravaldino’s walls,” Caterina said softly, so that Cesare could not overhear. “Still, we could have repaired them and I could have kept fighting. But when I learned that you were gone, and later that Borgia had captured you, I could no longer remember why Ravaldino and Forlì were so important. I remembered the Tower, which leads to total destruction; at least the Hanged Man brings us the promise of a happier future.” She drew back to study me tenderly again, and let go a deep, shuddering sigh. “I am so sorry that monster hurt you.”
“And if he hurts you?” I asked, with sudden anguish.
“I thought I had courage,” she murmured, “because I never feared dying in battle. But now I understand what bravery is: being frightened, yet persevering. Your act was far more courageous than anything I have done. The time has come at last for me to be truly brave and face what I dread most of all.”
I lost my composure and began to weep in earnest; Caterina had chosen defeat and humiliation by surrendering herself to Borgia, knowing that she would be raped, then dragged to Rome and publicly humiliated. If unlucky, she might die in some filthy dungeon in the Castel Sant’Angelo. All this she had chosen for love of me.
“I don’t want to leave you,” I sobbed. “Caterina, I am your sister.”
She gave a short, tearful little laugh. “It took you all these years to figure that out? Why else would Bona have made such a fuss over you?” She grew solemn again. “And here our paths diverge.”
“No,” I whispered. “I won’t go.” I could not bear the thought of leaving her with Cesare Borgia.
She let go another sad, short laugh. “So our positions have reversed; you don’t want to leave me, and I am telling you to go. Go now, Dea, before I change my mind. Go and be happy, so that my surrender is not in vain.”
I turned my face away briefly, as if by doing so, I could hide my anguish from her. “Our paths will join again,” I told her truthfully. “By then, something beautiful will have been born of our sacrifices.”
She nodded; a spasm of sorrow passed over her features and was gone. “Take care of my little Giovanni,” she said into my ear.
“Only for a little while,” I whispered, “until his mother joins him.”
We kissed, and the guard and Ser Luffo led me away.
The courier was waiting out in the cobblestoned driveway upon his horse, the hood of his cloak pulled up against the cold. Beside him stood a placid white mare, my intended mount, but when it became clear that I could not stand, a wagon was brought, and I lay down and let the poppy do its work as I stared up at the moon and stars. A pair of Cesare’s soldiers rode beside us until we passed safely through Imola.
In time I drifted off to sleep, and when I woke again it was day, and we were in the Tuscan countryside with not a soul in sight. When the driver reined in the horses, I struggled to sit, but surrendered and instead waited until he crawled into the wagon and took me in his arms.
I thought at first that the poppy had deceived me, but I found the strength to reach up and touch his face. It was Luca, my Luca, who had served again as scribe and courier to the captain of the papal army; he and Caterina had plotted together to rescue me. He was older, his face more weathered, his brow lined, but he was Luca all the same, as if the years had never separated us.
“Now I am a deserter from the Duke of Valentino’s service, for your sake,” he told me. We rode on to Florence, where Caterina’s children and the future waited.
In my old age, I grow uncertain as to whether Matteo actually appeared to me in the cell or was the product of a dream, or the drug, or the pain. It matters not even if the angel exists, or is simply the product of my own mind; I know only that, when I hear his silent voice, it guides me true. Do I regret not killing Cesare Borgia? Never, though he went on to leave thousands of victims in his wake. Those, too, are souls who must continue the struggle and fight their way out of darkness into light.
May we all find our way.
Afterword
Caterina Sforza invoked the protection of the French king when Ravaldino’s walls were breached; even that, however, did not spare her from being raped by Cesare Borgia. But at the bailli of Dijon’s insistence, she was treated not as a prisoner but as a guest, and thus escaped torture. In this manner, she was forced to travel through the Romagna with Cesare’s army until his triumphant return to Rome.
There, she was publicly humiliated and thrown in the dungeon of the Castel Sant’Angelo, where she languished for more than a year due to her refusal to legally surrender her lands to the Borgia. In May 1501 her spirit was finally broken, and she signed the contract granting Imola and Forlì to Cesare.
She returned the same year to Florence, where she devoted the rest of her life to training her son, Giovanni de’ Medici, in the military arts.
Giovanni, who in later life was known as Giovanni delle Bande Nere, became one of the greatest condottieri (military merce
Dea and Luca are fictional characters; outside of them almost all of the characters are based on real historical figures.
Acknowledgements
My deepest thanks to:
My best friend, Helen Knight, whose incredible generosity made this book possible;
My editor, Charles Spicer, whose professionalism, kindness, patience, and enthusiasm are unmatched;
His editorial assistant, Allison Caplin, who is likewise a sheer delight;
My super-agents, the amazing Russell Galen and the astounding Danny Baror;
My friend Sherry Gottlieb, who listens to me whine about my plot and always offers sage advice;
Mouse and Bill, whose hospitality brightens our days;
And most of all, to my partner of thirty-one years, George, who, during the writing of this book, did all of the cooking, cleaning, errand-running, and author-pampering—cheerfully. I love you something fierce, sweetheart.
About the Author
Jeanne Kalogridis was born in Florida in 1954. She earned a BA in Russian and an MA in Linguistics from the University of South Florida and went on to teach English as a Second Language at the American University in Washington, D.C. She now lives with her husband on the West Coast of the US, sharing a house with two dogs and a bird. Her interests include yoga, Tibetan Buddhism, the occult, languages, art, and reading everything ever published.
Also by Jeanne Kalogridis
The Burning Times
The Borgia Bride
Painting Mona Lisa
The Devil’s Queen
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011
Copyright © Jeanne Kalogridis 2010
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Jeanne Kalogridis, The Scarlet Contessa