Chapter 05 - 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 5 

Set among the olive groves, safe from the winter winds and warmed by a friendly sun, the dead Ippolito's estate, Villa Belvedere, offered a glorious view of the blue Tyrrhenian Sea. And I was queen of Count Ippolito's vast lands. Belcaro's trickery had been well plotted—the deed held, the claim was valid. 

But the Doll-master's golden puppet had spent her life energy. I shrank from remembrance of Ludovico. The weak and soon betrayed love Ippolito had borne me was best forgotten. Even the memory of Giuliano was buried. Nor did the Doll-master remind me of the past. He was too busy counting our gains! 

La Belvedere was a palace fit for Semiramis. Her marble halls were crammed with the accumulation of generations of Montaldi. Her vaults contained a treasure in silver, gold and jewels. 

Belcaro, miser and gloater, inventoried and counted. “We'll parade thy wealth in every court in Europe." 

"If I am rich, can I not live here in peace? Not travel, not flaunt my wealth?” 

"Not ...?” Belcaro's face darkened. 

“Why endure the fatigue of travel ... the work ... the trouble?” I argued. 

“Foolish Bianca!” laughed Belcaro. “My puppets are my life. When spring melts the Alpine snows, we shall be on the way again.”

"Leave me here to enjoy my wealth, dear friend," I pleaded. 

“Leave thy beauty to molder among these olive groves?” sneered the Doll-master "Bianca, how little thou hast understood Belcaro." 

It was true. This hunchback was beyond my cognizing 

As always when the caravan came to rest, he installed his puppet workshop in a room apart. There he worked and sewed hours on end. He was busy composing new plays for his theater. He put Fornieri to learning new parts, new songs, new sonnets. 

Our graceful Fornieri was bored to tears by the quiet of La Belvedere. He could not be happy unless he were parading his fine looks before an audience. But Belcaro gave no entertainments—although several nobles had sent their pages, inviting the famed Doll-master to their Genoa palaces. 

“All in good time," he said to Fornieri when that pretty gentleman whined. "I have my reasons for keeping to ourselves.” 

It was my idea that Belcaro preferred to stay aloof from society to forestall any criticism of the manner in which I had become mistress of so important an estate as La Belvedere. And I had to allow him credit for his wisdom; certainly it would have done no good for Ippolito's "young widow” to flaunt her affluence in the Republic's face! 

While Fornieri sulked, I found a new kind of entertainment. My defunct "husband's" library contained many writings in Greek and Latin-Italian translations from Plato and Petrarca, Livy and others that I attempted to peruse in spite of strange spellings that I could decipher only with the utmost difficulty. Messer Dante Alighieri's Divina Comedia was more readable—the three parts were contained in three manuscripts bound in finest leather and gold. But Messer Dante's recalling of Florence and the scenes of my native Tuscany made me ill of homesickness. 

There was another book that held my attention for many a long winter evening. Nello found it. He liked to climb a ladder to the top shelves of the library. There he would sit, kicking his feet and singing or picking out a tome to look for pictures of devils and angels. Horrid little man! If there were no pictures he tossed the tome away, seeming to enjoy the thump it made when it hit the marble floor. 

In this wise, Nello uncovered the iron chest. His excitement was immense. “There may be treasure inside! Let's open it!" 

I, myself, was curious and let him fetch a hammer and bang away at the lock until he had it open. 

"It's only a big old book!” he said in disappointment, and finding no pictures in the book, he soon lost interest and ran away to play ball with the children of the head gardener. 

I opened the book to the first page. Two hours later I was still reading. The creation of the world! Adam and Eve! The story of Cain and Abel! How I pored over that close text inscribed by one who called himself Frater Humilitas. 

I carried the book to my bedchamber and placed it near my pillow. Night after night I read by candlelight. Moses and the Israelites! The history of warlike David. Wise Solomon. Not even Messer Boccaccio's tales or Dante's evocation of Purgatory could rival these! 

Some instinctive caution forbade me to speak of my find to Belcaro. And Nello, having forgotten his disappointment, said nothing. 

It is hard to tell the exaltation I felt when, coming upon the Song of Solomon, I read those amorous passages in which the King relates his passion for His Beloved. I had never loved in such a manner. No, even my love for Giuliano could not compare! 

There were times when, reading of Queen Esther and the beauties of old, I stood before my mirror and examined myself with a critical eye. 

"Nello!” I said to the dwarf who sat cross-legged on the foot of my bed. "Thou hast seen many women. Hast thou seen more fair than I?” 

"I've seen two hundred and forty-four women in their birth skins," Nello boasted. "Thou makest all two hundred and forty-four look like hags.” 

One night as dawn was breaking, I heard the song of a bird and thrilled. Drowsy—yearning for I knew not what, I stretched and yawned like a cat. And weary of my bed, I threw a robe over my nudity and descended to the gardens. The lilies were blooming in regal splendor. Violets carpeted the soil under the ilex trees. I watched the sun rise over the hills and strike across the purple sea. 

Pacing a statue-lined walk, I came to a little temple of marble—the Belvedere from which the villa took its name. There I stopped short, for kneeling at prayer in the rotunda was a young monk of the order of Mendicants. 

He must have heard my step; seeing me, a beatific smile transformed his pious and somber countenance. 

I spoke. “Good friar, how camest thou into these gardens? The gates are locked. The wall is high.” 

He rose from his knees. "I beg the noble lady's forgiveness. For an instant I was deceived by a vision. My name is Fra Giacomo... my mission is to Count Ippolito. Here is the key to the garden gate.” He showed me an iron key. "I had it from the Count himself.” 

So surprised was I that my voice broke. “Good friar, Count Ippolito is dead." 

"Dead!” The friar crossed himself and remained in prayerful meditation. 

The cowl covered his hair but I could see a gleam of bronze, and from a deeply sunken eye-socket an eye that blazed with lightning. The nose was strong, prominent and aquiline with wide nostrils, capable of terrible dilation. The mouth was full, compressed-generous. The jawbone was strong, the cheek-bone emergent; between the two, the flesh was hollowed, not so much with the emaciation of monastic vigil as with athletic exercise. His face was ugly; and in spite of its great strength it revealed signs of great sensibility. I perceived, hid away behind that skull, beneath that coarse brown frock, a furnace filled with unearthly fire. Did the friar see a vision of angels when he first beheld me? Was my long golden hair and blue-robed figure remindful of his most beloved saint? 

A power this friar exuded warned me not to speak my false title of Countess di Montaldi. I resisted that power. I—afraid of a Mendicant friar? 

"Thou hast given me a grievous blow, contessa," he said sadly. "Ippolito and I were fond friends and comrades. How did he die?” 

Trembling inside, I murmured, "He was the victim of an assassin's dagger.” 

"God forgive the sinner,” exclaimed the friar. He seemed to waver. "Contessa,” he began, “mine is a secret mission. Ippolito left a certain object in an iron chest. It was my duty to transport it from here ..." His ardent gaze tried to pierce the curtains of the lie that bolstered my pride. But I defied him. 

""Treasure? Where was it hid, Fra Giacomo?" 

"On an upper shelf in the library. I know the exact place." 

I turned and led the way to the villa. “Come! Search." Leaving him, I went to my chamber to speak to Nello warn him! I would not give up my book in which I delighted—no, not for all the Fra Giacomos in the world. 

Nello was on the terrace capering and pointing to a small vessel that had put into our cove. “Look! A boat! But it is empty. Nobody on board." 

So—the friar had come by sea. Now I understood. He'd climbed up the cliff to the rotunda. Had I imagined he'd come by air? 

I took Nello on my knee. "Nello ... dost thou love me?" 

“Yes, Bianchissima. Have I not proved it?" "Only with caresses. Now, prove it like a man." 

The little fellow's face fell. “Thou, Bianca, wilt not accept me as a man."

I laughed. “Prove it another way. Remember the day when we found the chest? Thou didst hope it contained treasure?" 

"Yes. But it was empty. Just old writings..." 

"I know. We put the chest back where we found it. Never tell, Nello. Never mention that we even saw it or terrible things will happen to me.” 

He crossed his heart, “I shan't tell, Bianca."

I called for Maria and dressed. Belcaro by this time had been informed of our visitor. He was at breakfast, in conversation with the friar when I went downstairs. 

"Well, Fra Giacomo? What news of the chest?” 

"I found the chest, Contessa Bianca," said the friar quietly. "The lock was broken. Its contents are missing. Grievous news for me." 

Belcaro looked at me quizzically. "Fra Giacomo will not say what the chest contained." He shrugged. “Gold? 

Treasure? Jewels?” 

“The contents were worth more than gold or jewels, Messer Belcaro," said the friar. 

I disagreed in my heart. The book was full of wondrous tales, but what value had they, except to entertain? 

The friar refused Belcaro's lukewarm invitation to be our guest—put off in his small boat and soon disappeared from view. 

“Bianca," said Belcaro joining me on the terrace, "what dost thou know of this treasure?" 

“I? Nothing!” 

Belcaro regarded Nello with a suspicious eye. “Perhaps Nello has some notion? He's ever climbing the library ladder ... tossing books about as though they were playthings.” 

I laughed. “Nello would have come running to me, had he discovered something in an iron chest!" 

“Yes,” said Belcaro. “But if he found ... jewels?” 

“Thou didst hear the friar say ... 'twas not a treasure of gold or jewels." 

"I heard him. But was he telling the truth?” "He seemed not the man to lie ..." 

Belcaro made a grimace. “Who knows what temptations beset men ... even those who wear a cowl? Perchance, it was some ancient writing, codex, or incunabula. Greek or Latin or Hebrew. Ippolito was a great collector of old writings. A monk would call them greater treasure than gold or jewels." He changed the subject abruptly. “I have invitations to visit Bologna and other cities. What say? Shall we accept?" 

“Yes, Belcaro," I answered listlessly. 

Had I known what the future held I would have leaped into the blue waters beneath my window—a stone weighing my feet and my wrists chained! 

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