Jeanne Kalogridis - The Scarlet Contessa

The

Scarlet Contessa

A NOVEL OF THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE

JEANNE KALOGRIDIS

Dedication Contents Cover Title Page Dedication The Tower Prologue PART I Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten PART II Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-one Chapter Twenty-two Chapter Twenty-three Chapter Twenty-four Chapter Twenty-five PART III Chapter Twenty-six Chapter Twenty-seven Chapter Twenty-eight Chapter Twenty-nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-one Chapter Thirty-two Chapter Thirty-three Chapter Thirty-four Chapter Thirty-five Chapter Thirty-six Afterword Acknowledgements About the Author Also by Jeanne Kalogridis Copyright About the Publisher

FOR HELEN,

FOR SAVING MY LIFE

Contents

Cover

Title Page The Scarlet Contessa A NOVEL OF THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE JEANNE KALOGRIDIS

Dedication

The Tower

Prologue

PART I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

PART II

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

PART III

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Afterword

Acknowledgements

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Also by Jeanne Kalogridis

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Tower

Ravaldino Fortress

December 10, 1499

Prologue

The end of the world will arrive, say the mendicant preachers, on the first of January 1500; God can no longer bear the deeds of evil men and will strike them down. That most famous Cassandra, the monk Savonarola of Florence, says that God is especially outraged by the blatant sexual crimes of Pope Alexander VI, who brought his sixteen-year-old mistress and his illegitimate children to live with him in the Vatican.

On that terrible day, the prophets say, the earth will shake until it crumbles to dust, and we sinners will fall howling to our knees. For the wicked there will be no mercy. Those of us who have been faithless will be cast forever into the lake of fire. The world will perish in a cataclysm, and a new kingdom will take its place.

Christmas is a fortnight away, which means the coming wrath of God is barely three weeks away, according to the faithful. I wonder whether my lady Caterina and I will live long enough to see it.

For now, however, it is midnight, and beyond Ravaldino’s fortress walls all is quiet. I lie upon the little cot in my lady’s roomy closet—used now for storing ammunition and gunpowder instead of Caterina’s headdresses and gowns, and thus stinking of war. I yearn for sleep, but it does not come easily these days.

Especially not tonight, with the noise emanating from the bed out in my lady’s chamber. My arm has gone numb, and to wake it, I turn over on the narrow cot; it is lumpy and uncomfortable, and I am unused to sleeping on it. This leaves me facing the velvet curtain that covers the closet door.

Unfortunately, it does not cover it well enough. The swath of velvet is slightly too narrow, and through the cracks between it and the stone, I glimpse Caterina sitting up in the middle of her large bed, illuminated by the lamp on the night table. She is entirely naked, and the light infuses her white skin with a warm glow, as if she has been dipped in honey; her torso is long and lean, her waist, after many children, narrow. Her back is to me as she straddles her supine lover, and as she rides him vigorously, the handsome muscles of her shoulders, back, and arms ripple, and her thick dark blond braid, terminating at the base of her spine, swings like a pendulum across her back.

Her latest lover, Giovanni di Casale, lies passively beneath her, groaning with pleasure and exhaustion, his head thrown back against the pillow, his long, bony legs emerging from beneath my lady’s firm buttocks. He is forty—only four years older than the insatiable Caterina—but he seems twenty decades older. He is red-haired, balding, with flabby skin the unhealthy white of a fish’s belly; Caterina reaches out to brace herself against his chest for a moment, and his skin jiggles beneath her hands. He is my lady’s secretary, not a soldier.

After a full day of leading military drills and testing the artillery, the Contessa Caterina Sforza, Lady of Forlì, is still full of lust and energy. She releases her hold on Giovanni’s freckled chest and circles her hips atop his in a slow, grinding motion, as if to crush him. Inspired, Giovanni releases a gasp of mounting ecstasy.

The scene causes a faint, pleasurable stirring between my own legs, but anxiety steals my desire to seek release. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my back to the curtain, wishing I had the energy to stick my fingers into my ears.

It is hard enough to sleep these days, even without such an interruption. A week ago, we left the comfort of Paradise, the name Caterina had given her magnificent apartments inside the fortress, with their breathtaking view of the nearby Apennine Mountains. A week before that, she secretly sent all her valuables—fine gowns, jewelry, furniture, carpets, as well as all her children, save one—to the safe haven of Florence. Now we are in the most secure tower in the fortress of Ravaldino, on the edge of the town Forlì, which Caterina rules. She is contessa, too, of Imola, a larger town half a day’s ride away, which is now under attack by the Pope’s army.

If Imola falls, odds are we shall fall, too.

There are few windows here in the main tower, no paintings or tapestries covering the drab walls, no carpets upon the rough stone floors, no furniture save for the bed, a single armoire, a night table, and a table for the washbasin, above which hangs the large, finely polished mirror Caterina insisted on bringing. The Lady of Forlì’s cries of pleasure grow louder and more urgent, joining with those of Giovanni, finally fully inspired by her efforts.

Just as Giovanni lets go a howl of ecstatic release—and my lady laughs softly with delight at his abandon—a hammering comes at the thick wood and iron door. There is such urgency in the knock that I roll from my cot at once, slip the shawl folded near my pillow over my shoulders, and push the curtain to the closet aside. Politely, I avert my gaze as the lovers hastily uncouple, pull on their clothing, and move quickly to the door.