Chapter 07 - 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 7 

The heat of summer blazed down upon our caravan as we wended our way inland from the sea. But soon, a conformation of the fields and the view of marching cypresses, rich vineyards, and olive groves heralded the approach to my native Tuscany. 

"Are we nearing Florence, Belcaro?" 

"We are nearing my summer villa, two leagues north of Siena.” 

Belcaro's retreat, the Villa Gaia, was approached by charming country lanes—and drawing near, one saw a hill of green with a tower peering out of the center. The hill, was covered with ilexes shorn at the top so as to have the look of a level carpet. But on ascending a winding road and entering the gate, the tower turned out to be the crown of an impressive edifice, set in superb gardens. 

Never one to deny himself comforts, Belcaro had furnished his villa with great taste. The spacious rooms had high ceilings painted a fresco. The loggia was decorated with birds, flowers and allegorical subjects. A small chapel nestled in a leafy glade. Belcaro was proud of his medallions by Luca della Robbia, that decorated the chapel walls, but he said the altar was not complete. 

"One reason why I returned to Villa Gaia is that I wish to speak to a young artist who has been highly recommended for the execution of a reredos in bas-relief." 

I could not but wonder that Belcaro should care to beautify a chapel. He never attended Mass. I never heard him utter a word in favor of religion or the Church. 

The charm of the gardens, the quiet and repose of the villa among the ilex trees was a balm to my troubled spirits. I made an attempt to put the stinging memory of a pirate's scorn out of my mind. I say I made an attempt. Redfield's words were not easy to forget. Nor was it easy to relieve my conscience of its burden of guilt. 

In a valley of this restless mind I sought in mountain and in mead 

Trusting a true love for to find. Somewhere along the way I'd lost all trust in man. But I was not ready to put my trust in God. Some residue of bitterness, left over from a life of debauch and sin, seemed to poison me. Man was falsehood and I could not prove God's allness ... His love. 

Only Belcaro and Nello seemed to enjoy our quiet life. Fornieri and Clown Gianetto could not abide the country. 

Said Gianetto, "I have a wife in Florence. Can I not visit her and see if I have a new baby crop?” 

Fornieri complained, “The cicadas sing all day. The tree-toads all night. I shall be driven mad by this cacoph only of Nature.” 

Belcaro soon permitted his castrato to ride to Florence with Clown Gianetto while he remained closeted in his workshop for hours on end. It was housed in a building outside the villa. He kept the key, never inviting me in. 

Each morning when I awoke I promised myself, “This day, something will happen to make me glad.” At day's end I was disappointed. 

One afternoon as I was strolling in the gardens, I glimpsed a rider on a sleek black mule. It was not until later that I learned we had a guest at Villa Gaia. 

"The young artist of whom I spoke has arrived,” said Belcaro. "Andrea de Sanctis is his name. Come! Make him welcome.” 

The artist had been leaning over a drawing board. He straightened and swung about with a smile on his face. But at sight of me, the smile faded and a look of anguish, of shock, of deep gloom took its place. This expression changed to one of disciplined courtesy. He bowed to me. “I am honored, Madonna Bianca!" 

And all this time, I too had been seized with as strange a sensation as had ever assailed me! Wonder at the beauty and grace of this stranger. Delight in recognizing that he had been as deeply moved as I. 

Can love be like the sun that burns through the darkest cloud? Yes! I had no inkling of it then, but Maestro Andrea de Sanctis fell in love with me at the moment of our first encounter. And though at that moment I knew it not, Andrea was the key to the riddle of my thwarted life. 

"Maestro de Sanctis has come to study the arrangement of the chapel,” said Belcaro. "If he can produce a design to please me, I will commission him to sculpt the reredos.” 

Eagerness to show his worth and modesty that forbade his boasting warred in the young man as he said, "I will strive with all my might to be worthy, Messer Belcaro.” 

Those first days I scarcely saw the artist except when we dined. At table he spoke rarely and seemed to prefer to listen. He spent most of his time in the chapel or in his workshop. Belcaro had given him a room in the west wing of the villa—and I knew that he labored there far into the night, for I saw his lighted window. When we met in the loggia or gardens, he would bow and bid me good morning or good evening. Often my eyes would follow him noticing his fine figure and graceful walk and wondering about the quality of the work that might come from his artist's brain and fingers. And sometimes I would stroll past his workshop and glance through the open door. His head would be bent low over his drawing board—the crayon moving swiftly. A deep cap of hair hung over his brooding eyes. He never seemed to notice me. 

One morning I awakened early. The dawn was warm, beautiful, cloudless. A breeze from the garden filled my room with a sweet bouquet. I arose feeling that this day must bring some rare joy. I dressed and hurried to the refectory. The artist was alone. He rose as I entered. 

“Good morning, Maestro Andrea." “Good morning, Donna Bianca.” 

My bubbling spirits were dampened. I sat with my eyes on my plate like an awkward girl. And Maestro de Sanctis was no bolder than I. 

Maria brought my breakfast of figs and milk and cut a slice of cheese from the round with a string and served it to my plate. 

"The figs are at their prime," I murmured. "Try some, maestro. 

"I have," he answered in a low voice. "They are delicious. Sweet as honey." He stared at his empty plate as though he expected it to fill by magic. 

"How is the work progressing, maestro?”

"Slowly." 

Our conversation died a second death. We were so quiet that I could hear a fly buzz on the high frescoed ceiling. “How I wish I knew more about thy work," I blurted out. And then I wondered at my words—for my curiosity was not made of the intense interest in art that I expressed. 

He looked up from his plate. "I'd show Madonna, were I not dissatisfied with what I have done." 

"Show me anyway," said I with a smile. 

His dark eyes shone with the light of a lofty hope but his lips were tight. "So much depends upon my success," he muttered. "I cannot bear the thought of failure.” 

"What seems to be the stumbling block, maestro? Is our Villa Gaia too quiet? Perchance thou dost miss the city. The company of other artist friends. I've heard it said the painter and the sculptor are of jovial nature ..." 

"No ... I do my best work in solitude."

“Then ... what is the reason for thy discontent?" 

His manly gaze met mine. "I have an ideal for Our Heavenly Lady,” he answered, and leaning to me he spoke volumes with a simple gesture of his artist's hands. “Not the time-honored image our Our Lady. Not the mourner! 

Not the victim of destiny! I see a woman strong enough to mother the world. So candid and so pure that the snow would seem black under her feet. And yet I dare not ..." He sprang up. “I beg madonna's leave." 

I saw him plunge down the road as though the Furies were in pursuit and my troubled eye followed him until he disappeared. Why this sadness in my heart? Why this shadow on a day that began so brightly? I left my food untouched and ran into the garden. Strange! Strange! The sun was warm and I was in a chill! 

Where had the maestro gone? Back to his workroom? I approached the open door with caution. No, he was not there. But I must see the work whether he was there to show me or not. I walked into the workshop—and stopped short. On every side were drawings of me—all of me! My form. My hands. A hundred Biancas on every wall. And on a sculptor's stand, my head in wet clay. De Sanctis had covered the work with a damp cloth and come to the table with the feel of my cheek-bones in his thumbs! 

I sat in the garden and mulled over what I had seen and heard with emotions indescribable. “... a woman strong enough to mother the world. So candid and so pure that the snow would seem black under her feet.” 

O Andrea, thine eye saw a Bianca who died a thousand deaths—the first was under a whip. She died again in the arms of a licentious prince and again on the breast of a lusting tyrant. A murderer's kiss slew her and she was trampled under the boot of a scornful corsair of the sea. 

The sun rose to its zenith. The midday meal was called. Andrea de Sanctis had not returned. 

"He's a fellow of strange and shifting moods like all artists,” said Belcaro. "He'll return when he feels the pangs of hunger.” 

There was no siesta hour for me that day! I stood at the shutters and watched the road. I watched until my eyes burned. At last as the sun was setting I saw Andrea toiling up the hill, dusty and forlorn. I flew to greet him in the loggia. "Maestro!" 

"Madonna?" He lifted tired eyes. "Forgive me. I must go to my room ... see about some materials ... must ride to Siena and get some more." And with these mum bled words he hurried away. 

I stood rooted to the spot, in my throat all the words I longed to say. “If thou didst see in me a model worthy of thy conception of the Holy Mother ... let me pose in all humility and joy!” 

"Andrea!” I hastened to the workroom. Alas, he'd gone —and left ruin behind! The drawings smoldered on the hearth! My head was smashed into formless clay! Why, Andrea, why? At first I wept with dismay. Then anger dried my tears. 

When Belcaro met me at the dining table that night, I spoke harshly of young de Sanctis. "What an ingrate! He eats thy food, accepts thy patronage ... this afternoon I saw him run off like a gross fellow ... without a word of farewell!” 

Belcaro smiled. "I shall not be cheated. De Sanctis left a remarkable sketch, all complete except for the Madonna. I plan to give him the order for the reredos and hope that inspiration for the central figure will come ... unless it troubles thee to have him working here this summer?” 

“Why should it trouble me?" I murmured. And was surprised at the surge of joy I felt that the artist would return. 

The next days were long and monotonous. I rose early, went out into the garden and watched for Andrea's coming. One, two, three days passed and then he came riding up the road on his sleek black mule. And Bianca, seeing him, asked herself if she had ever truly seen this young man until now. Andrea! Andrea! 

“My greetings, Donna Bianca.” Simple remark—yet to me his voice was like music. He seemed to struggle for words—gave up the struggle and spurred his mule forward. 

I saw him dismount and give the rein to the stable boy, then look yearningly in my direction. But he made no effort to address me again. 

It was not until afternoon that Belcaro came to the loggia where I was taking the cool. “Bianca ... come!" He led me to the workshop where we found the young maestro seated at his drawing board.. 

“Here is Donna Bianca, Andrea,” said Belcaro. “Put thy request to her in thine own words." 

Emboldened, de Sanctis obeyed. "Madonna, I am at a stalemate unless thy kindness moves me forward! That inspiration I need ... that model supreme for the woman supreme ... is thy face! I hardly dared breach the matter, fearing to be importunate! But Messer Belcaro gave me leave. Donna Bianca, let me show thee how the work stands ... then ... do thy deciding." He whisked away a cloth and I saw the reredos-masterpiece of divinely inspired art. 

It was divided into three compartments. The central group contained a kneeling Madonna with the infant Christ and St. John. And on either side were statuettes of San Lorenzo and San Remigius under an entablature for the life-size bust of Our Lord. The infant Savior sat upon the steps at the Madonna's feet, holding a globe upon His knee, and stretching out His left hand to the little St. John. Above these children the kneeling Virgin—

Her hands crossed upon her breast. But Mary was faceless! 

A tremor went through me as the thought crystallized. Andrea wished me to pose for the Holy Mother. 

"I... I am unworthy!" I murmured. 

"Say not so!” cried Andrea. “Thy beauty is a gift of heaven. I fear I'd only tire a lady of thy delicate make." 

And now Belcaro spoke up. “Donna Bianca is no fragile flower, maestro. Set the hour for the first pose. I promise she'll attend thy bidding." 

Andrea's face was transfigured with joy. “Tomorrow morning, early, ere the heat rises?” 

I could do no more than stammer, “To ... tomorrow morning." 

When we left the workshop, Belcaro said, "My thanks, Bianca! But for thee I'd have this young man on my hands all summer and fall. He may well be a genius ... time will tell, but he is a solemn young man, too concerned with his own thoughts and endeavors to be pleasant company. The sooner we are rid of him the better." 

I remember my first session as an artist's model. The birds were singing in the ilex wood. The perfume of jasmine floated through the workroom window. I listened to Andrea's quick breathing, the light stomp of his foot—as he moved back and forth in front of his sculptor's stand. Sometimes he would brush the hair from his forehead with a quick stroke of the forearm. He did not speak to me except to thank me when the hour was ended. 

The next morning we began again, and every day thereafter. He was never satisfied. Once he threw down his tools and for several days would not work at all; instead he went for long and solitary walks from which he returned dusty, disheveled and weary. 

For my part, a strange thing was happening. It was as though I too was being molded anew—as though Andrea's fingers were bringing a new Bianca into being. When the work went smoothly my spirits soared, I felt young, free, and all my past anxieties were forgotten. I'd even dare to judge! "Perhaps if this nostril were rounder? The temple narrower?” And Andrea would say, "Yes! Yes!” and touch my image with reverent fingers. When Andrea's inspiration flagged, I lapsed into gloom. 

It had become vital to me that he should succeed in bringing the reredos to completion. His success would be mine. I would mirror the beauty and holiness he had created! Andrea, I prayed ... Andrea, labor well! Thou dost labor for Bianca's very soul! 

There came a day when Belcaro and his steward Belotti rode off to Florence. Two heavy-laden ox-carts brought up the rear of their mounts. These carts were guarded by four armed men. What was the Doll-master transporting with such care for safety? The plunder from Redfield's pirate ship? Ferrara's gold? Strange that I should give but a passing thought to Redfield and the events that had torn us apart. The glorious new had wiped out the inglorious old. I thought only of Andrea de Sanctis! Yes, I lived for the hour of our togetherness in the workshop and when the work was finished, I died a little, returning to life only when we met again. 

The evening of Belcaro's departure, Andrea and I sat across the board from each other and made small talk. 

“Today the heat was not so great."

"No ..."

“Soon it will be autumn."

"I like autumn.” 

We discovered a new meeting of minds when Andrea spoke of his native Siena. 

"I too was born in Siena!” I cried. "I left it as a babe. But the mere mention of the name Siena seems to waken happy memories.”

Andrea conversed gaily of his youth—how at the age of four he had found some clay and begun molding likenesses of his dog, his mother's cat, the family goat! "I soon graduated to angels,” he said with a mischievous and charming smile. "It was fun to feather their wings, but I had a lot of trouble with the halo! It always fell off." 

“How easy to knock the halo from an angel's head!" thought I. 

Even in the silence of the workroom it seemed to me that we were talking heart to heart. While he worked I would gaze at his face, dwell upon its beauty and wonder each day why I had not noticed this or that striking feature the day before. 

On the fourth night of Belcaro's absence, as we were again sharing the evening meal, I glanced up from my plate and caught Andrea's eyes upon me. They held me. I could not look away. And a great longing swept o'er me. I wanted to will my life to his love and service. My strength adding to his strength—my hope and care dedicated to his high ambition. This longing was untainted by carnal passion, pure as the snows! 

I'd sought in mountain and in mead—trusting a true love for to find … and here was true love. 

Did my gaze falter? Did my cheek blanch? I rose in agitation and stepped out into the loggia. 

"Donna Bianca!” said a low voice at my shoulder. “Let me at least bid thee farewell." 

I turned a tear-stained face. "Farewell? Why farewell, Andrea?” 

"Because I love thee and thou art Belcaro's wife. Let me go now ... lest I lose my soul and be the damnation of thine!" He pressed the hem of my sleeve to his lips and was about to go away when a great cry escaped me. 

"No! Andrea! I am not Belcaro's wife!" 

He turned back and seized my hands in his sculptor's grip. "Bianca ... deceive me not with too wild a hope! Thou ... free? Free to pick a mate? Wouldst thou ... couldst thou love such as I ... ? Son of a poor Siena shoemaker?” 

“Yes! Yes!” I cried and fell on Andrea's breast. The fatal word spoken, I would have given my all to take it back. Fool that I was! Why did I not annul the falsehood at once. "I am not free to marry, but ... love I may, for my heart is free and mine inclination is toward thee." I did not speak! 

How sweet the nightingale sang in the ilex wood! How bright the stars in their new heaven! Andrea and I paced the walks arm-in-arm and spoke as lovers do—of little things. The fireflies. The perfume of a rose. 

With the dawn of a new day I wakened to realize that my fate was once again bound up in that of a man. 

Andrea had spoken of marriage as a bridegroom speaks. "I will finish the reredos with all haste. Then with the five hundred ducats Messer Belcaro pays me, I will prepare a home for thee and me." 

I took care to ask my hasty lover not to break news of our betrothal to Belcaro. "Belcaro has been kind to me. Let me tell him our happiness in my own way.” 

How could I confess to Andrea that I had a husband? The flood of lies was backing up behind me like waters behind a dam! 

Andrea did not rest until he had put the last touch on the reredos. It was finished the day the Doll-master returned to Villa Gaia. 

"It surpasses my every hope!” exclaimed Belcaro when he saw the completed work. “Now if thou canst translate the clay into bronze... I will proclaim thee master throughout the length and breadth of the land!” 

With a quiet "Arrive-derci, Donna Bianca," my darling loaded the work in three parts onto an ox-cart filled with straw and departed for his native Siena. 

"Strange how the wand of genius touches at random," said Belcaro when the young maestro had gone. "De Sanctis is the son of a poor widowed shoemaker of Siena. His mother was a humble washerwoman. Yet in him is the seed of greatness.” 

Belcaro then dismissed Andrea from his mind and spoke of his plans for the approaching fall season. "I went to. Florence to smell out what air blows, and found it good. Lorenzo is strongly seated. His enemies have been routed. We shall attend and entertain his court the first two weeks in November.” 

I longed to say, "I'll not be with you,” but I held my peace. 

One thought nagged me and must out. "Belcaro, hast heard aught of my husband Count Maldonato in thy travels?” 

“Why?” he asked sharply. 

"Because ... thou saidest ... thyself, he might drink himself to an early grave." 

“And 'twould please thee if he'd done it?” 

I did not answer but the astute Doll-master could read my very thoughts. 

"Dear Bianca," he said teasingly. “Sometimes thou art as bold as a marauding cat; other times, timid as a mouse." 

Several days later, Belcaro went on another journey and this time he took Nello with him. When he returned he said to me in an off-hand manner, “Let me be the first to tender sincere condolences for the sudden departure from this life of Count Ugo Maldonato." 

His pronouncement so startled me that I fell in a swoon. When I came to, I was on my bed. Nello was fanning me and muttering, “Poor Bianchissima! Poor Bianchissima!” 

I stopped the movement of his little arm. “Nello, what. happened during thy journey with Belcaro?" 

Nello's flat face twisted in a conspirator's grimace. "Important business, Bianchissima. Very important business. This Maldonato was a terrible enemy of the Prince. Lorenzo offered a gold chain to the brave fellow who would slay him.” Nello opened his doublet at the throat and pulled out a gold chain. "I won the chain. Is it not beautiful?" 

“Thou ... didst slay Count Maldonato?” Nello nodded, fit to shake his head off. "How?" 

“I stole upon him while he lay in drunken slumber and slipped a good poison into the cup at his bedside." 

"How didst thou enter the castle?" 

"It was simple. I climbed up the cliffs and stepped through the balcony window.” 

How plainly I could see the horrid scene. Stealthy little Nello, scrabbling up the tufa rock. Maldonato sprawled on our big bed. He wakens thirsty—and drinks. "Oh," I moaned, hiding my face. But to the fore of my horror was another sentiment. Joy. Now I was truly a widow. Now I could stand by Andrea's side and take the marriage vow. 

Nello hid his dear-bought chain of gold. “The master would whip me if he knew I had told thee. Speak not, Bianca!” 

Belcaro said at the evening meal, "Bianca ... it now behooves thee to return to Castle Maldonato. I hear thou art thy husband's sole heir. The inheritance is not to be disdained." 

"I wish never to see Castle Maldonato again,” I said, shuddering. 

"Foolish girl," laughed Belcaro. “Learn never to cast away an advantage ... from whichever side it may come.” 

That night I lay awake pondering to return to Castle Maldonato or not? Now that the Count was dead, I could confess a pious falsehood to Andrea, saying, "I did not tell the truth ... so as not to hurt thee.” And was not Maldonato near Siena—and Siena the abode of my love? 

The next morning I told Belcaro I would return to the castle. 

"Good,” he said, "I'll arrange for the journey in style." 

Garbed in black and attended by Maria, I rode to Castle Maldonato in a coach drawn by four sable horses. The contadini met me at the first approaches to my lands and formed a sorrowful procession to the castle gates. What awful memories here. Yet, thinking of Andrea, I could forget. 

The funeral rites completed and Count Maldonato laid to rest with his ancestors, I hastened to Siena in my coach and informed myself of the way to the bottega of Maestro Andrea de Sanctis. 

"Turn left from the Piazza del Campo by Via di Citta and go as far as the Wolf. Then turn left again by Via San Pietro. It is behind Palazzo Buonsignori,” said the shop keeper of whom I asked directions. 

A cobbler's shop was streetwise. Andrea's bottega in the rear. I stood on the threshold of a barn-like room with a plain dirt floor. Stripped to the waist, Andrea was standing in front of an open furnace with a long shovel. His face was flushed. His hair rippled in moist, dark curls. “Andrea," I called. 

"Kindly wait,” he answered without so much as turning his head to find out who had spoken. 

I watched in fascination. Was this the casting of the bronze? Andrea heaped on more and more fuel. The flames leaped higher and higher. At last he shut the furnace door, put down the shovel, turned and seeing me, he rushed into my arms. "Bianca! These veils? Art thou bereaved? Dearest ... come outside where the heat is not so great." 

Sitting on a wooden bench beneath a fig tree I sobbed out my story. "I could not tell thee that I had been married ... that I was still married. But now ... Forgive me, Andrea. The cruel man who called himself my husband is dead.” 

“The hand of God has opened the way," murmured Andrea. He kissed me—his most ardent kiss until this day. "My betrothed, come! Meet my father. He will rejoice in the happiness of his son.” 

The shoemaker was a worthy man, but I declined his invitation to sit at his humble board. 

“I have my coach, Andrea. Let us drive to some rustic inn outside the walls." 

Never did wild hare and insalata taste so good! Never was wine so heady. Never were a man's vows so true. That eve I reached the zenith of joy—not in fleshly embraces but in sweet conversation and innocent meeting of hearts. I confessed all—or almost all. How I had fled from my husband's tyranny. How Belcaro had taken pity on me; how I had lived under his protection for nearly three years. 

Andrea drank in every word as if it were gospel. "Poor Bianca. Thou hast suffered, but I will make thee forget thy suffering." 

I ventured a timid proposal. “Dear Andrea ... I am now a woman of wealth. The castle and lands of Mal donato will provide us with a good living. Thou canst work and sculpt without worry or care. Soon, the name of Andrea de Sanctis will be on every lip. "The great de Sanctis,' they'll say, and they'll come hurrying to thy workshop."

He laughed like a child. “Wealth is good when it serves good purpose, Bianca. I could do much for the glory of God and our Blessed Lady if I had not to earn my daily bread. Recently, I was forced to put aside a Holy Family that I am making in marble for the Church of the Assumption ... and instead chisel a coat-of-arms on a tomb to earn the mule, the clay, the clean shirt and the new hose with which I came to Villa Gaia.” Andrea confided his hopes to me. "If the reredos in bronze pleases Messer Belcaro, he will speak kindly of me to other patrons. And God willing, I shall soon be a credit to thee, Bianca mia." He then asked me if I had told Belcaro of our plan to wed. 

"He shall be told, Andrea," I promised. “Losing me will cause him some annoyance. But I will convince him that my happiness lies in marrying thee.” 

I returned to Castle Maldonato, placed the lands in trust of a steward, and went back to Villa Gaia. 

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