Chapter 04 - 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 4 

What aphrodisiac had Belcaro brewed to change a mourning dove into a flaming bird of paradise? 

The very instant the herb-tainted liquid touched her lips, Bianca was turned against herself. What a tide of feeling surged through me! 

"The Moor... send for him and tell him Bianca accepts his invitation," I ordered Maria sharply. "Bring out my richest gown. My finest jewels.” And to Belcaro I said, "Dress my hair the way thou knowest ... like molten gold.” 

The smiling Doll-master took down my braids and let my tresses fall. “Ludovico is a man of mighty powers. They call him centaur. 'Tis said he never tires of love and that he can lift a woman to heavens of rapture.” 

Pale to the lips, eyes burning bright, I stared at my reflection in the looking glass. “Is the bodice of my gown low enough?” 

He pinched the silk between my breasts and fastened it with a diamond brooch. "Now it is low enough.” And subtly prompting me, he continued to describe Ludovico. "Lava runs in his veins. He has no time for sentimental sighs and trading of kisses. Capture him at first glance. But not with a courtesan's fulsome arts. He likes his dish with a sprinkling of Indian pepper. Yield ... but not with complacency. In short ... make him strive to take thee.” 

“Yes! Yes!” I babbled like a creature gone mad. And I was mad. 

Our caravan proceeded to the ducal palace: Fornieri in his finest dress, Gianetto in clown's attire and Nello leaping and tumbling out in front. 

Meanwhile Belcaro kept his eye glued to my window. Suddenly he muttered, "There he comes!” 

I looked out and saw the same dark-faced stranger that I had beheld in my dream. Close at his heels two slim, white hounds; and Nello, gamboling around them like a lamb in springtime. 

“Ah! Friend Belcaro! Master of the Dolls!" 

Belcaro descended, knelt to Il Moro and kissed his hand. Then he beckoned me out of the wagon. “Here is my finest doll, O Duke.” 

"Call me not Duke, good Belcaro," said Ludovico. “I am only my nephew the Duke's adviser." His willful eye lingered upon me. “What is her name, Belcaro?” 

“Bianca, your Grace.” 

"Well named! Lovely doll Bianca, I bid thee welcome to our court.” Extending a careless hand to me, Ludovico threw an arm around Belcaro's hunched shoulders and led us into the ducal palace—veritable citadel with thick red walls, mighty gates and many vast salas and halls. This was the Court of the Sforza, so sumptuous as to rival the fabled palace of Hadrian! 

"How go the times in Florence?” asked our host. “The city is in a turmoil since the attempt on Lorenzo .. and Guiliano's sad death,” Belcaro answered. 

Ludovico muttered something I did not hear; then he said, “When didst thou last see Maestro Leonardo? I'd fain bring him to Lombardy." 

"Leonardo may decide that Florence has lost some of its savor now that Lorenzo's fortunes are in jeopardy," said Belcaro significantly. 

Sforza's speech surprised me. He used the guttural Lombardy tongue, thickened with barbarian accents. Not elegant or concise like my native Tuscan language. If his speech surprised me, his bad manners irked me. Was I no more than a "doll” that he should ignore me? 

"I've heard it said, O Ludovico, the men of Milan have manners like goatherds. I always doubted it could be true ... but now my doubt is dispelled.” 

Ludovico turned an impudent eye on me. "The doll talks! She talks loud.” He seated himself, patted the couch. "Be seated, lovely one.” Then he turned to Belcaro with a roar of laughter, "Doll-master, I've heard it said ... thou couldst make sawdust come to life. By the gods, here's the proof.” Lolling back in the cushions, Ludovico laughed till he purpled in the face. 

This vulgar joker—a centaur? I rose in ire. "If Mes sere can do without my company ...! 

The Moor let me reach the door of my bed-chamber, then—there he was. 

"Bianca?" 

"Sir?” Trembling, I faced him but my trembling was not from anger. When he seized me in his arms I stood rigid like a stone. Then, with a siren smile, I wreathed my arms around his mighty neck and offered him my lips and pressed my body closely against his. 

So began the love of Bianca and Ludovico. Love? 'Twas more like a prize race between two blooded horses-centaur and golden filly. The pacesetter, Belcaro. 'Twas he who groomed the filly for the race-quenched her frantic thirst with the amber wine of Aphrodite. 

"Thy lover is thy slave. Ask him for the diamond chain he wears on state occasions. He stole it from the heir's treasury. Dare him to hang it on thy breast.” 

I obeyed the Doll-master as would a puppet on strings, and my ardor in love was such that the Moor satisfied my every whim. 

"Milan is a treasure chest and he who holds the key is thy servant,” murmured Belcaro. 

Gazing upon the Moor I understood his meaning. A dark and sensuous countenance, mighty hands. Crimson and white clothing, a massive neck collared with rubies, slim white hounds motionless at his feet—such was Ludovico Sforza. My obedient swain! Pretender to the throne of Lombardy. The true successor was a mere babe whom I was soon to meet. 

"Come here, little one,” called Ludovico as we strolled through the garden where a pale boy of eight or nine years was playing. Ludovico turned to me. “This is Galeazzo, young son of my brother, who will someday wear the iron crown of the Lombards. Galeazzo, kiss the beautiful lady." 

The child pecked my cheek and ran away. 

Inspired by Lucifer in Belcaro's shape, I leaned to my lover. "Moor! The iron crown would suit thee better, thou hast the head to wear it.” 

He gave me a sharp look. “Aye. The crown would fit ... but there's a hair shirt that goes with it a shirt that is cut to the measure of King Louis of France." 

I repeated what I had heard to Belcaro—the iron crown and the hair shirt. He seemed disturbed and went away muttering. I paid no heed, so long as the wine worked in my brain. The drug could change me, a sentimental, sighing maiden into Queen of Lust. 

My mornings were spent testing the fullness of my breasts, the firmness of my flesh; bathing, perfuming and being attired by my slaves. I measured my hair—"golden fleece," Il Moroe called it. Had it grown? Was it more lustrous? The embroiderers and weavers, the goldsmiths and jewel merchants were hard put to satisfy my caprice. But in Sforza's arms I appeased the constant need of my flesh. I seemed to be all flame, burning and searing. I could not satisfy my ever-returning hunger for him. 

Lying together, we would watch the young girl acrobats. “Send them away!" I whispered when I saw my lover's eyes light with a flame of desire. 

I told Belcaro all my love and jealous rage. 

"Thou canst be sure of Il Moro ... only if he continues to want thee," said Belcaro. “I would not send his pretty tumblers away. Let the Moor have them ... and turn again to thee. 

That night, five hundred guests rioted in the palace banquet hall. The wine flowed like water. There were viands to feed an army. And Belcaro's puppets to entertain! 

My lover and I lay apart from the banqueteers. He fed me sherbets from his lips, drank wine, nestled his dark head on my breasts. Again the tumbler girl came in a whirl of legs and arms and postured before our couch. Il Moro seized her flying veils and drew her down on the couch. I closed my eyes and held myself in tight leash until I heard him say, “Be gone, pretty thing.” When he touched his lips—still wet from her mouth—to mine, I grew tense like the lioness when Sir Lion tries to force her. 

Twas then that Belcaro changed his tune. Did he fear an alliance between Ludovico and Louis XI of France would cause Galeazzo's followers to rise against the usurper? 

"If the Moor's pleasures sting thee, turn the stinger on him. Make him jealous." 

When summer heat enveloped the Lombardy plain, Ludovico moved his court to the ducal villa on Lake Maggiore. Here my lover and I floated in a swan-like boat with a canopy of gold over our heads while our minstrels followed in lesser craft. We dined on flowered terraces and watched the sunset o'er alpine peaks. 

And here, returning from a secret mission to France, came Count Ippolito di Montaldi. He was a brilliant young man—Sforza's favorite companion. 

Ludovico was always occupied with the building of palaces, churches, arches; in collecting rare paintings and statues; in assembling a vast treasure of writings of all ages. Count di Montaldi was his adviser in all such purchases. His exquisite taste and unerring judgment always prevailed over the Moor. Even more important was Count Ippolito's role as go-between with foreign princes. 

"See how the young Count charms his master?” whispered Belcaro in my ear. “Turn thy charms on him... and watch the Moor burn!" 

It was no hard task for me to light a fire in the young man's breast. A smile or two, a compliment, Count Ippolito was ready to fall at my feet. I teased him on with every allurement known to woman. Being the Moor's friend, he fought his inclination but he was no match for me. 

"Bianca!” he raged as if in disdain of himself, thou hast made a fool and a knave of me. But I care not." 

That night as we walked in the gardens, I let Ippolito caress me—forbidding him only the ultimate caress. And in days to come I did not cease to signal him out for my smiles. 

At last Ludovico—so sure of himself that he'd been blind to a point—said, "Methinks thou dost seek Ippolito's company too much, Bianca." 

And I with open candid eyes replied, "I ...? Carissimo! I love only thee.” 

It was the beginning of a cruel game, I plotting to let Sforza find his best friend always near me. 

"Bianca ...” said Belcaro, "if thou carest for Ippolito, take him.” 

"I care nothing for Ippolito! It is Ludovico I would offend." 

"Dost thou hate him?" smiled the Doll-master 

"Yes!” I cried. "I hate him and I crave him. It is some thing twixt heaven and hell. What am I, Belcaro, angel or fiend?” 

It was at a game of balls in the court that Il Moro's jealousy reached a climax. He and Ippolito were playing against each other. The ball flew fast! Their skill was al most equal. 

“Good! Oh! Good! Ippolito!” I cried and clapped my hands when the young man scored a point. 

Ludovico threw his raquette down with such force that it broke; and then in rage he stalked off the court. 

Poor Ippolito! He was torn between fear of having offended his prince and joy that I should have signaled him out as my favorite. 

Retiring to a summer house to sip chilled wine, we sat a while in silence. He was wiping the sweat from his brow with a linen when suddenly he said, “Bianca, I have decided. Either thou wilt flee with me... now, this very day, or we must not see each other again.” 

"Not ... see each other?” 

"No. My loyalty to my prince prompts me to bring everything out into the open." 

"How ... meanest thou?" “Tell Ludovico my love for thee.” "And face his anger? He'd have thee done to death." 

He clasped me in his arms. "Dost thou fear for my life? Bianca, couldst thou love me?” Smothering my lips with kisses he would not let me answer. “Bianca ... hear me. I own estates in Genoa. Marry me. We'll live like king and queen. Bianca beloved ... make me the happiest man in all the world.” 

I went to Belcaro in great turmoil of mind. The good in me was warring with the bad. 

"Count Ippolito di Montaldi has asked me to marry him.” 

“Capital!" Belcaro exclaimed. "How can I marry? I have a husband.” He clapped his hands. A servant brought wine. 

"Be seated, Bianca,” said Belcaro in his most earnest manner. “There are matters we must thrash out ... such as thy standing with Ludovico. If his long-drawn negotiations with Louis of France succeed ... thou and I might find ourselves at a disadvantage, but it is my idea that ... allied to a gentleman of wealth and position like Count di Montaldi ..." He handed me a cup of wine. “Thine own instability ... thy lack of fortune is thy real weakness, Bianca. Yes, as thy protector and counselor I must insist ... drink, Bianca. With Count di Montaldi's fortune in thy pocket, thou couldst snap a finger at Ludovico Sforza!” 

I raised the cup and drank. Belcaro spoke the truth. Poverty was my weakness. And remembering Ippolito's words—“I own estates in Genoa. We shall live like King and Queen of Love," my mind became fired with excitement. 

“Are Ippolito's estates so valuable, Belcaro?" 

"They are indeed. His castle is the finest in the Ponente. His treasures are without number. Why does Ludovico use. him for adviser in all things of art and learning? Because Ippolito is the most discriminating of his court ... not even surpassed by Leonardo da Vinci." 

“Ippolito begs me to flee with him ... now.”

"No time like the present."

"He asks that we be wed."

"Excellent! Excellent!" 

"How can I wed another man when Ugo di Maldonato lives?” 

Belcaro reached across the table and caressed my cheek. "Let the Doll-master set the stage. Thou ... play thy part." 

Ludovico himself aiding, the plot was carried forward with great speed. Yes, the Moor had long been planning a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Agnes. A break in the hot weather caused him to leave on short notice. He'd be gone three days, a guest of the bishop. 

I think nobody in the ducal entourage realized that Belcaro's troupe was not accompanying Il Moro on the pilgrimage. Courtiers and ladies waved goodbye as our caravan rolled out of the castle gates. 

It was planned that Count Ippolito should meet us at the west gate of the city. There, in a humble parish church, a false friar would be waiting to unite us in matrimony. But Belcaro already had the deeds to the young count's estates signed and notarized in his pocket. 

Drunk with bridegroom joy, Ippolito di Montaldi plighted his troth to me—a bigamist—yet not a bigamist, for the bearded friar was none other than our clown Gianetto, in disguise. 

"Blessings on you," said Belcaro. His fingers closed like a vise around my wrist as he helped me into the wagon. “Trust me!” he whispered, and he repeated “Trust me. 

Bent on using his husbandly rights, Ippolito came to me and, with trembling hands, undressed me and re-moved the pins and bindings from my hair. “They told me ... thy locks were like a golden fleece, Bianca. I've waited so long to see them ...” He wrapped a strand of my hair around his throat. "Amore! Amore!" 

Ere he could embrace me, we were startled by the sound of riders thundering to a halt. The caravan ground to a dead stop. I heard a loud knock at my door. 

While Ippolito went to pick up his sword, I lay back and watched him tiptoe to the door and open the peephole. He turned a pallid face. “Ludovico's soldiers!” 

In that fatal moment did he realize that he had been betrayed? With a sudden, violent gesture he shot the bolt on the door and flung it open. 

I heard the clash of steel and then a strangled cry. A moment later, Ludovico's hireling rushed in. What must he have thought when he beheld a naked Venus? 

He was a short, thick-set villain with gleaming eyes under a shock of curly black hair. The knife he held was dripping with blood. "His Highness ordered me to bring him thy two breasts ..." 

I brushed aside the strands of my hair, "Here! Take them." 

The villain's eye filmed. He dropped the dagger and drew me into his hairy arms. I felt his savage kiss, sweat and Ippolito's blood mingled. 

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