Chapter 09 - 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 9 

One week, two weeks, three weeks I wept and mourned. Then like a corpse that stiffens after death, I stiffened into a brazen image of myself. A demon spirit seized me the spirit of revenge. Revenge upon Belcaro! 

Rich? I will make thee poor, Doll-master! Powerful? I will strip thee of thy power! 

Belcaro stammered out his secrets, ugly secrets dribbling like wine from the corners of a drunkard's mouth. “I knew thou wouldst someday be mine... O Bianca, so fair! I planned and waited!” 

He told the secret of Giuliano's stabbing. 

"I was in the plot to kill him, Bianca ... I plotted for thee. That mooning Prince was unworthy of thee. Yes, Bianca, 'twas my gold that helped buy a killer!" 

"Belcaro, was it not thou who didst urge me to be come Giuliano's mistress?" said I, to bring forth a full confession. 

"Yes!” he answered with a cackling laugh. "And I was a witness to thine every joy in Giuliano's arms, thus I possessed thee vicariously! I...I... misshapen monster ... not the Prince, fainted on thy fair bosom." 

And he boasted of Ippolito di Montaldi. 

"His death made thee rich, Bianca. Thy Belcaro plots well. It was I who placed the denunciatory letter on Il Moro's night table. Count di Montaldi died before he could make thee his wife.” He continued in an orgy of confession. “The pirate captain paid with his life, his ship and all his treasure for having possessed thee." 

What of Ludovico's hired assassin who stabbed Ippolito?" I murmured. “He possessed me. Did he live to report to his master?” 

Belcaro smiled. “What thinkest thou, Bianca? The lout fell into the ditch. His blood watered a turnip field and so it shall happen to every man who wins thee. Death! Death! Death. 

His oblique glance struck terror to my heart as he raved on. 

“Thy weakling swain Andrea. I would have done him to death. But he lacked the courage to take what thou didst offer. Now he will die hating thee.” Jealousy and rage seemed to transfigure his countenance. “Hear me, Bianca. Thou wert mine from the very start. Mine in the imagination which is the realm supreme. Come! I will show thee how I made thee mine." 

He led me to his workshop. There, reposing upon a bed of cloth-of-gold-Bianca Fiore herself! He had made a life-size doll in my image. The body was of flesh-colored satin, artfully molded. The head was wax, painted in my likeness. The hair could have come from my own head! Beautifully undulated, combed and decked with pearls, it fell in waves down the swelling bosom of the doll. 

"My masterpiece!” simpered Belcaro. I ran from this temple of the false. 

"Wouldst that I destroy the doll?” mouthed Belcaro at my shoulder. 

I did not speak the words that rose like bile to my lips. “And thou ... Belcaro, with thy ugly hump, thy twisted limbs and lurching walk, evil mind and murderous will, thinkest thou Bianca belongs to thee?" 

Now the tables were turned. Mine was the hand that pulled the strings that made Belcaro dance. I had discovered his weakness. 'Twas to hold me in his arms caress me—possess my physical body. 

He could not possess my mind or my imagination “realm supreme," as he himself had expressed it. 

I hatched a thousand schemes in those dark hours when I suffered the Doll-master Then, suddenly, I hatched the right one. 

Marry Belcaro! Make myself not only mistress of his bed—also of his name and fortune. 

The opportunity to speak came sooner than I had hoped. 'Twas Belcaro himself who opened the way. 

"The season approaches, Bianca, when we must heed Lorenzo's command and go to Florence to appear at court." 

Then I launched the bolt. "Belcaro ... what if some other man should cast a concupiscent eye upon thy doll Bianca?" 

The hunchback's countenance darkened and his fist clenched. “I'll find a way to shield thee!” 

"Another killing? Canst thou always be sure of escaping justice?" 

"My ways are secret!” 

"I grant! But even secrets will out.” I changed my tone. “Belcaro, there is a better way to bind Bianca in loyalty." 

He looked at me questioningly. “Well?”

"Marry me.” 

“Marry ... thee? Thou wouldst ...? Bianca, do my ears hear rightly?" 

"Marry me," I repeated. 

Truly, madness seized the man! It must be done at once! At once! Bans were posted. A priest was called. Was it the same priest who might have joined Andrea and me in wedlock? 

Belcaro Opened his coffers. His wedding gift was a necklace of diamonds worthy of an empress. “This is a mere trinklet compared to what I have in my vault in 

Florence!” he babbled happily. 

I stood like a cadaver and said the marriage lines. Now with the blessing of heaven and curses on myself, I was Belcaro's wife. 

Nor did he forego his husbandly rights—and I suffered him, knowing that each kiss was a link in the chain that bound him captive to my wheel. 

“What wilt thou, Bianca? What would suit thy pleasure?” 

Such was his concupiscence that he granted my slightest whim. 

It was Belcaro himself who midwifed the birth of a demon of greed and vanity. And that demon worked to prepare his doom. 

Before moving to the Palazzo Lung'Arno in Florence, I revisited the chapel and gazed at my effigy above the altar. So wast thou, Bianca, when Andrea loved thee. Now thou art dead and buried in corruption. 

Before we left Villa Gaia I ordered the auto-da-fé of Belcaro's puppets. He turned pale when I gave the order, but he was putty in my hands. The simulacre of mankind—kings, queens, merchants and good-wives, dragons and giants, generals and clowns—burned with a waxen stench. The doll Bianca was the last to burn. “My dear little dolls," sobbed Belcaro as he watched the holocaust. 

Donna Bianca Belcaro rode to Florence not in a puppeteer's wagon but in her own fine coach harnessed with four white horses. And she rode in company of herself, her dwarf and her serving woman, while her spouse had to be content with the company of his clown, his castrato and his steward. 

The house Lung’Arno that had seemed so fine no longer pleased me. I found it small, cluttered with the leftover frippery of Belcaro's days as a wandering puppeteer. 

"Thou didst boast ...thou art rich beyond imagining. Spend thy riches, Belcaro. I desire the finest palace in Florence." 

And my obedient husband answered eagerly. “No one ... not even Lorenzo himself shall have a palace like thine." 

The great architect Benetto di Majano came with his apprentice who carried his yardstick, drawing board, paper, rolls, brushes and leads. This 'prentice was a hand some young man but so timid that he turned from white to red when I looked his way. And when I leaned over his shoulder to point to some detail of design, Belcaro frowned and bit his lips. 

“Speak to the maestro, not to the apprentice, Bianca." 

"Oh, but I like the apprentice best! He is dazzlingly manly. Tall! Straight!" 

To my delight, Belcaro suffered an inferno of jealousy. But at a gesture from me he would drop his suspicions as a dog a bone and come to heel. 

I do not know who detested me more the castrato Fornieri, or the clown Gianetto. I had taken away their chances to display their talents on a puppet stage, but I promised them a real theater which I ordered Majano to build in a wing of the palace. 

Belcaro was rich! Now I could examine certain ledgers and deeds and know my husband's worth in palaces and lands, gold and jewels. In his strong boxes were records of vast loans to reigning princes, as well as loans to the nobles. 

"Make thy debtors pay thee!"

“I will ... in due time."

“Make them pay thee ... now."

“But ... it would ruin some.”

"Let them be ruined.” 

"All they could give would be their jewels and their art collections." 

“Then take what they have to give." 

I bolted my door against Belcaro until such time as he obeyed. And soon, payment in kind came pouring in. I kept what I liked and sold the rest—especially the works of art. I wanted no praying saints, pale Madonnas or weeping Magdalenes. Let Judith and Medusa, Aphrodite and Danaë under her rain of gold adorn my walls. Not love divine. Love profane! 

My palace rose on a great square in the Via Miche lozzi. A cortile of magnificent proportions formed the heart of the square. Four hundred and eighty feet of façade in sculptured stone. Each of the three stories forty feet high and the immense windows set twenty-four feet apart from center to center. As the pile grew, Florence wakened to the news that a lady of ambition had come to dwell in her midst. 

I had my theater, seating five hundred. I had an organ and musicians to play for me. I had a clavichord in sweetest tune, which I learned to finger. 

The work was at last completed—and Belcaro's purse was the leaner by a million florins. Stables full of horses. A court of white doves. A trained leopard on a golden chain. I burned with constant feverish effort to squander Belcaro's wealth and in so doing, to spend myself. 

Lorenzo the Magnificent himself honored my first entertainment. With Il Magnifico came a guest I had longed to see. The keen eye of Maestro Leonardo da Vinci knew me at first glance. 

"Ah! La Bella Bionda," he murmured and the name was pinned to me like a rose. "The Blonde One.” But Leonardo paid little heed to my person. He had always preferred a well-filled hose to a well-filled bodice. 

Among the many pleasures of the night there was one that exceeded anything Florence had ever seen. I and my poets and musicians had arranged a Pageant of Love. Even Belcaro had been kept in the dark. He sat gnawing his thumb and waiting with the rest of the audience. 

The curtains parted on a dark cave. There was—chained to a rock-decked only with my golden hair. Venus Bound. I heard a murmur of admiration that swelled my bosom with arrogant pride. 

The following tableau was Venus the Prize. A hundred warriors made mock warfare for my possession. I was freed by a prince in armor blazoned with the Medicean palle. 

Lorenzo himself gave the signal for the applause. The curtain fell and I prepared for the third tableau, named by heralds with silver trumpets. “Venus Triumphant!" 

I posed upright in a silver chariot. Harnessed in chains—the dwarf Nello. But my costumers had given him a great hump that made a cruel caricature of my husband. Brandishing a thronged whip, I flogged Nello as he dragged the chariot across the stage among a mob of jeering, jigging nymphs and satyrs. The audience howled with wolfish glee. 

It was daylight when my last guest staggered or rolled down the great marble staircase. Then came Belcaro creeping to my bolted door. 

"It is thy spouse. Let me in."

"Nay. I will not."

"Bianca! I pray thee!” 

"I shall not until thou rightest the wrongs thou hast done me.” 

"What wrongs, dear heart?” 

"I heard them say ... 'she is but another of Belcaro's concubines in wifely garb. He will cast her out."" 

"Who spoke thus? I will make him eat his words!" 

“ 'Twas a highborn lady, Belcaro. But thou canst set my mind at ease." 

"Speak! Speak!” "Make the deed to the palace in my name. Give me the Villa Gaia. Give me a villa among cypress and roses on Fiesole's crown. I have nothing that is mine, except my white body.” 

"Thou hast' thy jewels ... and the Villa Belvedere in Genoa," stammered Belcaro. 

"I prefer Florence to Genoa." 

"Dearest ... it is too early ... or too late to call a notary. Let me rest in thy white arms. I will do thy will!” 

"Thou wilst rest in my white arms only when thou hast done my will." 

Belcaro held out three days and nights—then he danced to my tune! 

With the deeds to my new properties laid in a safe place, I was richer than many a prince. And Belcaro was poorer by another million. But he still had gold to spend. 

For an hour with me he gave a ruby called Il Diavolo to hang on my breast like a clot of blood. Brow jewels, hand jewels, bosom jewels, girdle jewels! I had them in such number that I held them as glass! Bracelets and crowns and rings and earrings and necklaces could make me twinkle like the stars in heaven. But they could not strike a spark of joy in my heart. 

How many men approached me! I laughed at them. What could they give? I had enough material goods. Nor could the most vigorous body or the keenest mind provide me with the sustenance of life—that love which I had lost, my Andrea.. 

And so, disconsolate knights and princes with money to squander, the cream of Florence's bucks and braves passed around the word, "Donna Bianca is faithful to her hunchback.” 

Sometimes, wearying of the pomp and noise of Florence, I rode to my hilltop villa and lay under the cypresses, alone. Then and then only dared I weep and in agony of soul, tear the dark grasses with yearning hands. O Andrea! Andrea! And having wept my eyes dry, I returned to Florence and my life of madness. 

La Bella Bionda's feasts were the equal of Rome's imperial orgies. Drunk with love and wine, a thousand revelers stayed the day and night around, finishing in a great chain of dancers that invaded the streets—Lorenzo as master of revels. 

I recall one pale dawn. With our music makers we had invaded the Mercato Vecchio where the contadini were setting out their produce. Soon we could go no further, for a little gathering blocked our way. They were not hostile; quite the contrary. They were listening most intently to a monk. 

That cowled head and ardent eye! That charmed and sonorous voice! I recognized Fra Giacomo. 

"It is not reason that bids me speak, it is a fire in my bones. I have, Lord, burned my wings of contemplation and launched myself into a stormy air where I find contrary winds on every hand. Florentines, will ye receive the Word? Or does the hate of God also reign here?” 

"Lorenzo reigns here, Mendicant!” jeered a young blood and tossed a faded flower in the monk's face. 

I loosed Lorenzo's hand and pushed through the crowd. “A very good day to you, Fra Giacomo!” 

"God's day to you, Donna Bianca." 

I genuflected with false humility—stuck out my tongue at the astonished monk. 

That same afternoon, Fra Giacomo came to the palace, asking to see me. I was lying in my vast, tumbled bed, in a vile humor. "Let the friar come in." 

He did not lower his gaze but addressed me frankly, "Donna Bianca, when first we met I was in search of an object ..." 

"The book?” said I, biting into a candied fruit. 

The monk was seized with joyful agitation. “The book? Hast thou found it?” 

I wiped my sticky fingers on the silken sheet. "Tell me, Fra Giacomo, what is this book? I read some of it and grew weary, for it is written so close.” 

"The book!” cried Fra Giacomo. “Where is the book?" 

His commanding manner vexed me. "Perhaps I shall tell thee. Perhaps I shall not. Why dost thou seek this book as though it were the Golden Fleece?” 

The friar fell on his knees and folded his hands in prayer. "O God in Heaven, open the eyes of this thy handmaiden that she may see the light." Still kneeling and with bowed head he said in softer tones. “The book is a translation of the Holy Scriptures into the language of our people, a labor of years, fruit of scholarly understanding and inspiration of prayerfully illumined minds. Thy dead husband, Count Ippolito di Montaldi, and his father Count Cesare defrayed the costs. Ippolito longed to see the work completed ... the Holy Scriptures printed in thousands..." 

"Holy Scriptures?" I fretted. "There were tales of kings and wars and plagues and love and lust ... nothing so holy." 

“Thou didst not read to the end, my child." 

"It was too tedious! Too long! The handwriting too close." 

Fra Giacomo rose and towered over me like a brown cloud. "It is for this purpose that I want the book, so that prophecy can be fulfilled and the truth made plain for all to read and understand. Now ... give me what is God's and let me go my way, with Heaven's blessings." 

The friar's pious mouthings were a mockery. "Bless me no blessings, monk! I've suffered Heaven's curses. Pass thy way!” 

"The book!" cried Fra Giacomo in a loud, despairing voice, "Give me the book!" 

I called my servants and had him thrown out of the palace. 

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