Chapter 03 - Mistress of Rogues by Rosamond Marshall

1954 Genre: Historical Fiction / Racy Romance

WEAPONS OF LOVE

In flight from her brutal husband, blonde Bianca fell into the hands of the puppeteer, Belcaro. She soon learned he wanted her as bait, to snare the most profligate princes of the Renaissance.

In exchange for power, Belcaro passed her from rogue to rogue. Until the night he found he could not resist the ravishing courtesan he had created.

But by that time Bianca knew him for the monster he was. And she was ready and waiting—with all the weapons of her amorous career!

"Miss Marshall's novel concerns the downfall of a lady ... whose golden hair and other charms were reminiscent of Botticelli's Venus... Bianca had a good many men in her life." —NEW YORK TIMES

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CHAPTER 3 

There is one death when the night of despair descends upon the soul. The other death comes when two hearts are torn asunder; when sweet, caressing hands fall lifeless and lips that murmured fond words are closed forever. 

A coffer of jewels, a few ells of brocades, and two white doves were all that remained of my love for Giuliano. That, and the searing memory of our unforgettable days and nights. 

In my agony I imagined that my sin of adultery was the cause of so grievous a loss. God had punished me for loving Giuliano; Giuliano for loving a wedded woman. 

Death seemed my only fit repentance; but Belcaro knew too well what was in my mind. The hunchback or one of his minions kept constant attendance upon me. No longer could Bianca weep in solitude; Belcaro was there to attempt to wheedle the faintest beginning of a smile. Or Nello, stroking me with his tiny hands, was there to beg Bianca to "come back to this world." Or Maria was with me, sniffling and chattering and eternally arranging my pillows. 

And I in my bed or on a couch, sitting, sighing, weeping as new roads passed under the wheels of Belcaro's caravan. Bianca moaning, turning, groaning as the wheels turned and groaned and took us from Florence across the Etruscan hills to Milan, from Bologna to Parma to Cremona. And back again and yet again. 

In each new town the same greeting could be heard at our approach. "Belcaro! How goes it with the puppets?" “Hast thou a new comedy to show us?” 

The troupe performed in every town. I could hear the laughter of the crowds at Belcaro's puppets' antics. 

And so another season. Now Belcaro insisted that I leave my couch and walk about with him. Thus Bologna was watered with my tears. Parma became windy with my sighs. At Cremona I stared blankly at a new kind of city—built not upon lovely wooded hills like those of my native Tuscany, but squatting flat upon the plain, an array of towers reaching to the sky. 

I saw fine palaces and churches, and saw them not. The Cremonese were devoted to the raising of silkworms; the tree they held most dear was the ever-barren mulberry whose leaves are stripped daily in growing time to feed the voracious green insects. This tree I did notice, for I too felt ever barren and stripped of my love. 

We visited Cremona's famed Torazzo, the Big Tower. It was begun in 1283 to celebrate a peace between Cremona, Brescia, Milan and Piacenza. Belcaro said it was the tallest tower in all the peninsula—three hundred and ninety-six feet high. He quoted in Latin: 

Unus Petrus est in Roma

Una Turris in Cremona. 

and then translated for me: “One Peter in Rome, One Tower in Cremona.” 

And I melted into tears. “One Giuliano' dead in Florence! No other love in all the world for me. Oh, Bel caro, I am so unhappy." 

Belcaro's features turned stony. He wheeled about and left me. I ran after him, terrified. "Belcaro ... Belcaro!” 

"It is enough,” he cried. "Basta! I do not want to hear the name Giuliano again!” 

I walked to my couch alone and trembling. 

I was still alone when the caravan reached Milan. It was late afternoon; the crowds were abroad, taking the air. The sight of Belcaro's wagons soon brought a laughing throng clustering around us. 

"Eh! Belcaro ... how are thy pretty queens?” 

"A comedy ... A comedy to make us gay?"

I closed my eyes and ears to the laughter and the shouts. Was it sleep or willful oblivion that descended upon me like a cloud? It seemed to me that I was dreaming and that I could hear Nello whisper, “Here... Prince!” Was it Giuliano who leaned over me? No, it was pot Giuliano, it was a stranger. “ 'Il Moro!' " said Nello grinning up at him. The Moor? The name fitted this man like a glove. He was dark of face and hair. He was tall and powerfully built. Around his neck a massive golden chain studded with precious stones. "Look, Moro!” chattered Nello. He seized a corner of the silken sheet and uncovered me to the gaze of a pair of fiery eyes that burned under twisted brows. 

"Fair! Very fair!” breathed the stranger. He withdrew as silently as he had come. 

"Was it all a dream?” I asked myself when I awoke. Yes, a dream it must be. I was alone. 

I'd risen and was combing my hair when Belcaro entered. 

"Dear Bianca, I bring thee good tidings and gifts from the most generous Duke Ludovico of Milan." He placed a heavy jeweled chain in my hands—chain that I recognized as the one I had seen around the dark-faced stranger's neck! I shrank back. "Belcaro? This chain?” 

"Beautiful!” he murmured. “Costly too." "I like it not!” I murmured. 

He gazed at me with lifted brow. “Thou likest it not? Why?" 

"I am afraid, Belcaro!” I answered with a shudder. 

“What is this caprice?” he said in a cajoling tone. “I bring thee gifts and an invitation from the ruler of Milan and thou art afraid?” 

I bowed my head. "I've seen other rulers, Belcaro. Other princes." 

Belcaro poured two cups of wine and offered one to me. “Dear, gentle Bianca, life must go on. We must bury our dead hopes and enshrine our memories in our hearts. Had we come to Milan at this season last year we would have been the guests of Duke Gian Galeazzo ... but a few months ago the Duke was assassinated. And so tonight our host will be Ludovico Sforza ... called Il Moro." 

Assassinations!" I murmured, turning pale at the word. "Can there be no succession save at dagger's point?" 

Belcaro smiled cryptically. "A dagger's point can do both good and bad." 

What brutality in his words! 

“Yes,” he continued. "Il Moro is the ruler now, although in theory, the throne is still to pass to Galeazzo's small son... but it is Ludovico who has the power. Wilt thou show a bright face to the Moor tonight, Bianca?” 

I shook my head. "No, Belcaro. Plead Ludovico's par don. Tell him I am ill and cannot leave my bed.” I seized the cup and drained it to the last drop. Oh! that this were Lethe's draught. The wine of oblivion! 

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