Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance (40 page)

I did not have to approve of Renaldo’s manner to know that he was right. Moreover, I knew that hard, relentless work offered me the only shelter from the grief tearing at me. Before Cesare could lower me from the saddle, I found my footing on the ground.

“I must see all, every bit of food, clothing, everything His Eminence intends to take with him.”

“Half of it has already gone. You cannot expect His Eminence to wait on your pleasure and risk arriving like a ragtag gypsy, carrying bundles on his back.”

“I can expect him to be sensible. He knows what is at stake. Morozzi—”

The priest had proven himself if not a master of the poisoner’s art, no novice at it, either. With the tainted figs, he had killed Borgia’s unborn child and come very close to killing La Bella herself. That he had used such a means rather than the lozenge in the locket he had taken from me told me that he was reserving it for a greater purpose.

I might be wrong, of course. Perhaps he intended to kill Borgia some other way and I was allowing myself to be misled. But everything I believed about the mad priest told me that he had not used the lozenge on La Bella because he intended it for Borgia.

The saving grace, so far as I could discern any, was that the combination of tartar emetic, dried paternoster pea, and star of Bethlehem that I had concocted was not a contact poison. It would be useless spread on fabric or any other surface Borgia would touch. That much might work in my favor. If I could be certain that the attack on Il Cardinale would come through his food or drink, at least I could concentrate my attentions where they would do the most good.

“What exactly has gone?” I demanded of Renaldo. “Any food, drink, anything of that kind must be recalled at once.”

“Nothing like that,” he assured me. “His bed, his clothes, certain items for his comfort and dignity, all from his own quarters here and therefore already inspected by you. Surely, that is acceptable?”

I did not know for certain if it was or not. I only knew that I had very little time and an immensely dangerous enemy who, in the face
of his latest defeat, was likely to be more determined than ever to win at all costs.

“Come with me,” I said and, without thinking to say a word to Cesare, I hurried off.

Sometime later, I was in the kitchens, inspecting the supplies being packed up to accompany Borgia into the conclave, when Vittoro appeared at my side.

“There you are,” he said. “What’s this I hear about Morozzi getting away again?”

Busy checking the seals on barrels of wine, I did not look up but said only, “At least his plan to incite Rome against the Jews was thwarted.”

“So we have reached the endgame.”

I did look up then, for I thought I caught a hint of relish in his words. He was a devoted chess player and as such, fully capable of appreciating the deep strategy Morozzi pursued, always looking many moves ahead.

But now, in less than two days—alarmingly less by the slanting of the sun—the princes of Holy Mother Church would be sealed away in conclave. Sometime after that—sooner rather than later if chaos was to be averted—a new pope would emerge to the acclaim of all Christendom.

“I’ve heard from your friend, David ben Eliezer,” Vittoro said, once he was assured that he had my attention. “He says the word among the Jews is that della Rovere is prepared to do anything he must to assure that Borgia is defeated. He seeks that more even than his own election to the papacy.”

“I do not doubt it.” If it came to it, della Rovere was young enough that he could afford to wait. No doubt he hoped to elevate
another caretaker pope in the mold of Innocent, someone he could control for his own benefit.

“Nor do I,” Vittoro said, “but ben Eliezer is very specific. He says that della Rovere has gotten wind of Borgia’s arrangement with the Jews. He is working frantically to assemble proof that will discredit Il Cardinale once and for all.”

“Before he can be elected Pope.”

“Exactly,” Vittoro said. “According to ben Eliezer, della Rovere will stay his hand unless and until it appears that Borgia is about to be elected. Then he will strike without mercy. If he has the evidence, he will use that. Otherwise—”

“He could turn to Morozzi,” I said, “but how? The cardinals will all be sealed in conclave—”

The sound of a throat being cleared drew us both up short. I had all but forgotten Renaldo. The steward looked anxious, as always, but also brimming with urgency he could scarcely contain.

“What do you know of this?” I asked.

“Why would I know anything?” he hedged.

“Because, dear Renaldo, we have established that very little escapes you. You are among friends. Tell us what you know.”

The steward dabbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead, expanded his narrow chest, and said, “As it happens, I have heard one or two things.”

“And that would be?”

“As you know, each prelate is to be accompanied by three attendants. Two of those serving della Rovere have been announced and are no surprise, they’re both his secretaries. The name of the third has not been released but there are rumors. . . .”

“Morozzi,” I said as did Vittoro in the same breath.

An instant later, Renaldo confirmed it.

It was the fulfillment of my worst fear. If Renaldo was right, Morozzi had contrived to place himself not only where he could do the most harm, but where I, as a woman, would not be able to reach him—inside the papal conclave itself.

“It is a risk for him,” Vittoro observed, “should suspicions arise later surrounding the death of Il Cardinale.”

“A risk he can afford to take,” I said, “since Morozzi has the means to make it appear that I killed Borgia.”

For once, I had managed to shock Vittoro. He stared at me. “What are you saying?”

Briefly, I confided my conviction that Morozzi intended to use both my locket and the lozenge he had taken from me to make it appear that I had struck down the very man I was charged to protect.

“Jesus weep,” Vittoro said. He passed a hand over his face wearily.

There being nothing to add to that, I leaped ahead to what concerned me most. “Who will Borgia take into the conclave with him?”

“He has not said . . . exactly,” Vittoro replied. The shifting of his gaze did not escape me.

“And that means . . . what?”

“It means that he is coming here, as soon as he can manage it, and he wants to be sure that you are on hand so that he can speak with you.”

That suited me perfectly. I needed time alone with Borgia if I was to persuade him of the plan suddenly hatching in my mind.

“When you have finished with whatever it is you are doing,” Vittoro said, “get some rest, have a bath, eat something but do not attempt to leave. I have enough to occupy me without chasing after you. Do we understand each other?”

I assured him that we did. When he was gone, I slumped against a vat of wine and looked at Renaldo.

“If we survive this, I will personally offer prayers of thanks to Saint Catherine of Siena and Saint Joan of Arc.”

“Better you ask them now to help us and save the thanks for later,” the ever practical steward pointed out.

If it is possible to pray while inspecting freshly butchered lamb, rounds of cheese, bushels of onions, and yet more wine, then I did so most fervently.

The day wore on. Borgia did not return to the palazzo. I supposed he was at the Curia, busy doing whatever he must to sway his fellow prelates to his cause. David sent a further message, carried by Benjamin, warning that della Rovere had dispatched several men to Siena. I had to hope that Cesare possessed the foresight to have left sufficient forces in that city to thwart any attempt to discover where the Jews’ money had gone.

By early evening, exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me. I resolved to seek my bed for just a few hours. Renaldo sent me on my way, pointing out when I hesitated that I had checked the same bunch of basil four times. Not that basil is a particularly good hiding place for poison. Although strongly favored, its leaves, even when dried, tend to reveal the presence of any adulterant.

But I digress. Again, always, it is my curse. Suffice it to say that I went and—miracle of miracles—found that some kind soul had left a bath already prepared in my quarters. I soaked in it until the water was thoroughly cooled, then managed to dry myself, and tumbled into bed with no thought other than for blissful sleep.

Only to discover that I was not alone.

“You’re incorrigible,” I said, a statement of fact not to be mistaken for complaint. I was beyond even token protest, my body infused with that species of ease that comes in the aftermath of terror when fear, strength, will all drain away and leave only a strange, limp peace. Moreover, the truth is that I did not relish my own company just then, not awake or asleep.

Cesare lay with his arms folded behind his head, stretched out beneath a linen sheet that covered him no further than his hips. He must have bathed recently because his dark hair was still damp. His chest was bare except for the silver medallion of Saint Michael that he had taken to wearing of late, having declared his fealty to the warrior archangel.

In the shadows surrounding the bed, I could not make out his expression but I heard his smile. “Would you have me any other way?”

Wordlessly, I shook my head. The truth was that after my initial surprise, I felt only relief at his presence, that and the stirring of desire he inevitably provoked. I moved toward him or perhaps he reached out first, but in either case I was wrapped in his arms, held safe against his broad chest, his legs entwined with mine. How strange that I can still remember the heat of his skin, the smell of the sandalwood soap he used, the roughness under my questing fingers of the scar that ran along the right side of his rib cage, reminder of a sword fight when he was little more than a child that had almost killed him. All this I can recall precisely as though I had only to reach out my hand to be touching him again. Truly, memory is a cruel deceiver.

If his intent had been to remind me of how well suited we were to each other, he succeeded admirably. The burden on my heart from the loss of Rocco remained unchanged; I had no expectation that it would ever lessen. But the realization of that made it easier for me to accept the consolation of my dark lover.

Some while later—it must have been deep night by then—we lay sweat-slicked and sated yet both reluctant to sleep. Our hours together were too rare to yield any to Morpheus, that stealthy thief.

Cesare stirred beside me. “I should have gone after Morozzi. He is a threat to my father,” he added as he stroked my breasts. “But the thought of you dying . . .”

I appreciated the sentiment, truly, but time was fleeting and did not wait upon small concerns, however much they mattered to me.

“The conclave—” I would have continued had Cesare not dropped his head and groaned. He was, I suspect, somewhat deflated by my lack of response to what was for him a veritable declaration of devotion.

“Oh, God, must we? Can we not, for just a little while, pretend none of that exists?”

There were times when I forgot that he was not yet seventeen. He was also unshaven and his beard scratched my skin. The weight of him, so pleasant in the throes of passion, left me feeling crushed. I gripped his hair in both hands and pulled him up so that he had to look at me.

“You can but I cannot. Your father is about to be sealed away with the most dangerous and conniving princes of Holy Mother Church. At least one of them is allied with a madman who has the means to kill Il Cardinale. It is my duty to prevent that. I would appreciate your advice.”

“Kill della Rovere,” he said without hesitation. Some have made the mistake of believing that Cesare was at heart a simple man, but I would say instead that he had a clarity of thought many of us would find enviable. Even so, there were times when he was wrong.

“I’m not sure that’s the solution,” I hedged.

He sighed. “You’re a poisoner. Why are you so reluctant to kill people?”

“I am not—” Killing was, for me, not only a practical matter but, as I had discovered, a source of release and even pleasure. However much I wished myself not so afflicted, I cherished no hope that any amount of devotion, not to God or Borgia or anything else, could wash the darkness from my soul.

There being no reason to explain any of this to Cesare, I said only, “Killing isn’t the best approach right now.”

“Then how do you propose that we deal with this mess? Oh, I know, didn’t Lucrezia tell me that you used to talk of running away to L’Angleterre and becoming a magus in the court of their king—what is his name, Henry something? Does that still appeal to you?”

“It might,” I allowed, refusing to be embarrassed by my younger
self. That is the problem with knowing people so long; they remember too much.

“Or better yet,” I said, “we could make your father pope.”

“You know he intends the same for me?”

I knew that Borgia intended his eldest son for the Church, but to hear Cesare speak so frankly of dynastic ambitions took me aback.

“Do you want to be pope someday?” I asked.

“God no!” There was no mistaking his fervency but lest I be left in any doubt, he added, “Give me a horse and a sword and I will remake the world, but for mercy’s sake, leave God out of it.”

“Yes, well, whatever your father plans, it will come to nothing if della Rovere manages to thwart him.”

Cesare sighed and flopped over onto his back. I breathed in the sweat he had raised on me and asked, “Do you know what he intends?”

He turned, propping himself on his elbow, and met my gaze. “Who? My father or della Rovere?”

“Your father, of course. I care nothing for della Rovere. Il Cardinale knows the situation better than any of us. How does he plan to deal with it?”

“Hell if I know. I receive his orders, I carry them out, I hope he is pleased. Beyond that, he tells me nothing.”

“You underestimate yourself. Did not your father send you to Siena? Obviously, he depends on you to handle delicate matters.”

“He depends on me to frighten people so they don’t get out of line. I’m very good at that. As to the rest”—he shrugged—“I suppose we will learn his plans in time. But for now . . .”