Jeanne Kalogridis - The Scarlet Contessa

“If it is wrong of my father to do such a thing,” she asked reasonably, “then why does no one stop him?”

Bona, devoted to God but no philosopher, had no answer. She soon despaired of trying to influence Caterina for the good, as the girl was obviously as stubborn as her father and most likely just as inclined to wickedness.

I, on the other hand, was desperately beholden to the duchess and eager to please her. My parents had no doubt been so horribly damned—my mother perhaps a shamed woman, my father perhaps too wicked to care for his own children—that Bona, unshakable in the face of evil, had never been able to bring herself to say much about them. I feared that whatever had driven them to unspeakable sin had infected me, and so I embraced the duchess’s assiduous instruction concerning religion.

God is loving, Bona always said, but also just. And though you might not see results at once, He surely hears the prayers of the meek. Pray for justice, Dea, and in good time it will come; and pray for yourself, that you might be wise enough to love sinners while abhorring their deeds.

For Bona’s sake, I believed it all, prayed often and sincerely, and waited on God to reward the faithful and punish the wicked. The duke was all-powerful, his bodyguards cunningly armed and ready to deal death to those who interfered with their master’s pleasure; what else could I, a mere seventeen-year-old woman, do other than pray and offer Bona my comfort and companionship?

Yet when it came to sinners who relished cruelty, such as the duke and his coldhearted pet, Caterina, I could not match Bona’s saintliness. My heart held hate, not love. And so, as I began to mouth silent prayers beside the duchess, I asked God not for patience or for charity, but for vengeance, of a swifter sort than He was accustomed to meting out.

In my mind’s eye I pictured not the dying Christ or the Holy Mother, but the duke, who had invited the current silence by holding out his hand to the girl and speaking gently, quickly, as if soothing a frightened beast. He was telling her that all the stories about him were lies, that he was in fact a kindly man who wished her no harm.

And she—fifteen years old at most, lovely, unmarried, and a virgin from a decent family—was crazed with fear and desperate to believe him.

I yearned to be a man, one with a sword and the access to His Grace Duke Galeazzo. I pictured myself stealing up behind him as he murmured to the girl, and ending his crime with one short, swift, avenging thrust of my blade. Instead, I had only the opportunity to whisper one Our Father and two Ave Marias before Caterina, her expression one of fascination, hissed, “They are moving into his bedchamber now.”

The screaming began again, this time wordless, outraged, animal. I clasped my hands until they ached and tried desperately to quash my imagination. From behind the altar wall came muffled thumping—bodies or limbs striking walls, perhaps—and the tinkling of glass. Beneath it all was the very faint, vicious sound of male laughter.

Holy Mother, take pity upon her. Lord, let the duke taste justice.

“Why do you not help her?” Caterina demanded. There was no concern or frustration in her tone, only a dogged insistence. “He is hurting her, after all. Surely God does not mean for you to stand idly by.”

Without lifting her head, Bona replied, “We are only women, and far frailer than men. Should they not come to our aid, we can rely only on the goodness of God.”

A corner of Caterina’s lip twitched in disgust. “Only a coward waits on God.”

Angered by the attack on Bona, I jerked my face toward Caterina’s. “If that is so, Madonna, then why do you not stop your father? You’re his favorite; persuade him. Save him from sin and protect the lady.”

Without lifting her ear from the door, Caterina stuck out her tongue at me; still at prayer, Bona did not see.

“You all speak nonsense,” Caterina said. “First you say that my father sins. Then you say that God chose my father to rule, so his will must be respected. Well, it’s his will to lie with pretty young women. So where is the sin? And if it is sin, then why would God have such bad judgment as to anoint my father duke?”

Bona did not open her eyes, but behind her veil, a fat tear spilled from the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek. It was not her way to question God or her husband. “If you will not pray for your father,” she said, her voice husky and uneven with sorrow, “then at least pray for the girl.”

“The fact is,” Caterina countered, “a duke can do whatever he pleases.”

She began to say more, but her words were drowned out by a man’s shouts coming from the direction of the chamber of rabbits: “Duca! Duca! Your Grace!” His rasping, nasal voice was soon joined by others, and grew muffled by the sounds of scuffling.

Intrigued, Caterina hurried into the hall to learn the source of the noise. Within a minute, she retreated back into the chapel in a fright, and dropped to her knees at the altar on the far side of Bona.

Boot heels rang against the loggia’s stone floor; soon a trio of cloaked men armed with drawn short swords stood in the chapel archway. One of them, of powerful shoulders and good height, stepped inside. Upon seeing the interior door leading to the duke’s suite, he rattled the handle, found it locked, then nodded to the other two, who began in turn to throw themselves at the door to break it down.

Ashamed, Bona turned her face from them.

Meanwhile, the first man—with straight dark brown hair, parted down the middle and falling a few fingers shy of his shoulders—bowed low to us, then straightened and said, “Good ladies. My deepest apologies for disturbing you at prayer and disrupting the peace in God’s chamber, but one of your fair sex is in danger. I beg your forbearance while we work to bring this matter to a happy end.”

His dialect was Tuscan, and his diction revealed an education reserved for the highest born, yet his voice was peculiarly nasal. He was in his twenties or thirties, but it was difficult to judge, for his face was remarkably strange. His jaw was very square, and his chin jutted far forward; he had a noticeable underbite and when he spoke, his lower lip stuck out while his upper disappeared. This would not have seemed so unfortunate had it not been combined with his huge nose, which was flat at the bridge where it met the inner corners of his eyebrows, then rose and swooped alarmingly off to one side; it had an unusually long, sloping tip. It made me think of a clay likeness that had waited too long for the kiln and begun to droop. He might have looked foolish or unforgivably ugly had it not been for the rare intelligence in his eyes and his unselfconscious, confident grace.

I stood, curtsied reluctantly, and said, with as much contained fury as I dared show a noble, “You have disturbed my mistress at prayer, my lord. And you have violated the sanctity of the chapel.”

I looked pointedly at his two companions, gasping after their few failed attempts to break down the door. Like him, they were dressed in new winter cloaks trimmed with brown marten fur at the collars and sleeves.

“I am no lord,” he replied, clearly troubled by the fact that the screams had turned ominously to muffled groans. “Only a commoner trying to help in an emergency. I beg your forgiveness in what surely must be a difficult time for you all. But can no one else in this palace hear that the lady needs help?”

Bona bowed her head low, still too mortified to speak; Caterina stayed on her knees but peered past Bona at the speaker, clearly eager to see where this unexpected development would lead. Before the man could say more, a low wail emanated from a distant room behind the door, followed by wracking sobs.