Chapter 10 - 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 10 

The book lay at the bottom of one of my coffers under bolts of silk and pieces of precious lace. I lifted it out such a poor, sheepskin-bound thing! 

“Thou didst not read to the end," Fra Giacomo had said. 

Opening the book to a part called “The Revelation of St. John the Divine," I let my eye wander at random over the close-limned sentences. 

Weep not: behold the Lion of the tribe of Juda, the Root of David, hath prevailed to open the book, and to loose the seven seals thereof. 

Open the book? Loose the seven seals? Lo! This lumpen parchment was bound with seven thongs! 

I turned the pages again and put a finger on another line of writing to find: 

And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet color, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls... 

Looking down I beheld the color of my own raiment scarlet cloth slashed with purple. Embroideries of gold and precious stones and pearls around the hem and sleeves. 

I clapped the book shut and returned it to its hiding place. Let it stay buried under bright silks and filmy laces. Let it lie in the fragrance of sandalwood and rose petals. I put the ranting monk and his book out of my mind and returned to my pleasures and to Belcaro's torment. 

'Twas Fornieri who first brought me the news—Fra Giacomo was preaching in Santa Maria in Campidoglio. “He speaks of lovely sinners! Go, hear this terrible monk paint thy portrait in words that scorch! We all go ... and get a great thrill as when the whip cuts into screaming flesh!” 

In Florence, as in Bologna, Fra Giacomo spoke to a cowed and trembling congregation. 

"Libertines! Jezebels! Spawn of Satan, cry with me, 'I Repent! I Repent! I Repent!'”

And such was the power of his voice that a great moan arose. "I repent! I repent! I repent!” Men beat their breasts. Women cast their jewels at the foot of the altar. What fools to go mad for a shouting monk! I stood unmoved. 

That very day I invited a thousand to a great ball in masquerade, and dressed myself in a brown robe and danced barefoot—as Fra Giacomo! When midnight struck, my Nubians stripped me of the frock and cast me headlong into a pool of white wine in which I swam with my hair streaming out like liquid gold. 

But soon Santa Maria in Campidoglio was not large enough to hold Fra Giacomo's congregation. He spoke first in the Duomo and then from a stone pulpit in the Piazza della Signoria. 

Seated with a company of ladies and gentlemen in an upper window of Palazzo Lanieri, I watched the monk's show. 

First he held a crucifix aloft with a loud cry, "Miseri cordia." And the mob to fall on their knees, beat their breasts, tear their hair and chant in rhythm, "Misericordia! Misericordia! God have Mercy! God have Mercy!" And having got his listeners in a mood for shivering and quaking, the friar began his sermon. 

"Dead flies do cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savor; so doth a little folly in him that is in reputation for wisdom and honor." 

As in Bologna, the monk sustained his discourse by tricks of rhetoric that would have been wasted upon the lips of shallow preachers, but marshaling his phalanx of embattled arguments and pointed illustrations, he poured out his thought in columns of continuous flame, mingling imagery sublime with strangely accurate reasoning. 

"There is an evil which proceedeth from the rulers. Folly is set in great dignity and the crown is askew." 

“Methinks Fra Giacomo doth hate the Magnificent with a peculiar hate," said Lady Beatrice at my elbow. She was the mistress of Lorenzo's purser. 

I answered with a scornful laugh, "Fra Giacomo hates all that life has denied him. Life, love, ease, fine raiment and delicate foods and wines. These ascetes turn the glove upon their hand. If I cannot ... thou shalt not!” My sally was applauded with laughter. 

"Well said, Donna Bianca!" “Thou hast spoken the truth!” And I to preen myself like a peacock! 

Fra Giacomo had ranted nearly an hour when I suddenly perceived that he was ranting at me. His gleaming eye lifted to the balcony where I sat, he signaled me out among the gay company. “O golden angel in whose care lies help for countless generations, do not hold back! Do not hold back! Open thy hand that the Word may become a living thing." 

I withdrew from the balcony, but I could not forget the monk's exhortation—nor would the monk let me forget. 

Day by day he preached, led processions and filled the air with his terrible thunder. "God! Make the hand of the golden angel to open." 

At last I sent for him. 

"If thou couldst have the book, what wouldst thou do with it, Fra Giacomo?” 

He answered forthwith. "There is a great wooden machine that strikes the page off a wooden block which is grooved with letters. To print a hundred pages takes but an hour! We could make thousands of Bibles in the Italian tongue ... and give them to the people." 

“Art thou so sure this ... reading will serve the people? Not disturb them?” 

"Can one be certain a cathartic serves when it stirs the sluggish bowels?” the monk retorted. "There is an inertia of the mind as of the intestines. I would cleanse with the Word of God. I would sustain with the promise to Abraham. I would succor and uplift with the word of Jesus and the Acts of the Apostles. Let the people read! Let them understand. Let them reason. Let them conclude that virtue is good and sin ... to be abhorred." 

I threw up my hands. "Fra Giacomo, thou hast a mind like a mason's plumb line. It cannot move left or right. What is under that robe? A man or rock?" 

The friar uncovered his shoulders that were marked with welts and crimson scars—a horrid sight that made me flinch with memories of pain. "Who did flog and burn thee, monk?” 

“The Inquisitors of Spain. And in England I was put on the rack. They would have burned me in Holland, but I escaped.” 

"Why?” 

"Because I was called to print the Holy Book and give it to the people." 

"Called? Who called thee?” "The voice of the Almighty." 

"So sayest thou. Why did the Almighty not preserve thee from fire and the rack?” 

The friar made a strange gesture-hands open, the palms empty. "Who is man to dispute with God?” 

I shrugged his argument away. "Why thinkest thou to escape torture and punishment in Florence?" 

"Because Lorenzo is a man of open mind." 

"Even Lorenzo cannot control the Seven," said I, thinking of the priors who sat in final judgment. 

“There are two wills stronger than that of the Priory," answered the monk. "One is the will of God. The other ... the good, common sense of the people. I have the people with me and God ... above me.” 

"Fra Giacomo,” said I marveling at his constancy, thou wouldst please the Prince better if thou didst not preach against sin in high places. Thy sermons would fall upon a more indulgent ear if thou didst flavor them with honey instead of vinegar.” 

His face worked. “To preach against sin is to uncover sin. Had I not raised my voice to the Golden Angel, would I be here ... begging, pleading for the book?” 

At the end of patience, I said, “Oh! very well, Fra Giacomo, thou shalt have thy book.” I opened my coffer and gave it to him. 

He received it kneeling, and kissed the cover. “God will reward thee, O daughter." 

Anger brought a bitter retort to my lips. “God has done nought for me, monk, that I cannot do for myself! If there is a God, why did He give me as wife to a brute? Why was I forced to leave the safety of my convent for a world of sin and strife? Why was I denied the one love of my life?" 

The friar's stern features softened. "Poor child! Why thinkest thou ... God willed thy misery? God is not the author of sin. Our dear Lord Jesus said so. The Apostles said so. Man alone authors sin ... and makes himself sin's slave!” 

When the monk left me I fell to weeping softly, unceasingly. When, where had I sinned my first sin? Was I the author of the plague that destroyed my parents? Did I urge a brute named Maldonato to seek my hand in marriage? Was I the cause of the madness that made my husband lift a whip against me? To later sins I could confess. Giuliano. Ludovico. Belcaro. Yes, Andrea too. I had even lied to him, whom I adored. But of that first horror Maldonato—I was innocent! Innocent! 

Florence did not mourn Fra Giacomo's departure. Quite the contrary. Now, with this bitter-tongued monk out of the city, the people's spirits as well as the Magnificent's humor revived as when a storm is passed. 

Said Lorenzo, “These prophets of doom do but work the masses into madness and despair. They give nought that is new, fresh and invigorating.” 

I wondered. The monk had the book, which he deemed invigorating. But I held my peace and returned to a life of revelry, queen of every ball and pageant. 

A gentleman named Count Alessandro Chigi of Siena came to one of my banquets. He was a lover of the arts who, in viewing my gallery of paintings, said to me, "Madonna, I see here remarkable treasures of painting and sculpture ... but there is not one example of the art of Andrea de Sanctis.” Then he began to speak of his fellow Sienese. “His gifts are like the flowers of the field ... legion! Yet he is a solitary youth... almost a recluse. Strange for one so young and of such genius. I own a Mother and Child which he executed in white marble. I wish ...” 

"Andrea de Sanctis?” I murmured. 

“Art thou acquainted with the works of the young maestro?” smiled Chigi. 

"Yes," said I, not wanting to speak—yet compelled to by the very force of my emotion. "If thou shouldst see the maestro, wilt thou give him a message, count? Donna Bianca wishes him every good thing." 

What a turmoil in my breast! I found no surcease in wines or feasting that night. 

Messer Chigi repeated in parting, "So noble and beautiful a patroness of the arts should order a portrait from my young protégé, Maestro Andrea." 

"Yes... yes ..." I stammered, and bade the count farewell. His conversation had started a fever in my veins. 

Dare I go to Andrea in the role of patroness? 

It was at this time that I received a package by means of a messenger who left no word from whom it came. It was a book five inches square and five fingers thick. On the vellum cover, the title Holy Bible. 

How clear and concise the printing! Many capital letters were exquisitely drawn and interlocked with symbolic figures of Faith, Hope and Charity. Here and there, scattered among the texts were woodcuts most beautiful to behold. Adam and Eve under the Tree of Life. Moses on the Mountain. Christ Jesus resurrected, at the door of the tomb. 

That night my lamp burned late as I dipped here there—seeking to riddle the riddle of this printed word. Oh! the letters were plain and readable, but I was seeking some message for myself, until I came upon this: 

The Lord executeth righteousness and judgment for all that are oppressed. He hath not dealt with us after our sins; nor rewarded us according to our iniquities. And on the same page I found another promise that quickened my pulse. 

As far as the East is from the West, so far hath He removed our transgressions from us. 

Should the Lord not deal after me according to my sins, then—perhaps—perhaps—? O let me be with Andrea for one moment. Let me gaze into his eyes and say, "I was not guilty in my heart. I did not mean to hurt thee. I loved thee with a pure and enduring love." 

That night I slept in peace, and wakening I found Nello sitting on my bed, fluttering the pages of the book. “Pretty pictures, eh, Bianchissima?” 

“Very pretty. Give the book here, Nello." 

When he had gone, I hid the book in a place I thought safe. 

And in the days following I became more and more restless to embark on a pilgrimage that would take me to Andrea's door. At last I could tarry no longer. 

"Where goest thou?" asked Belcaro when he saw my preparations for a journey. 

"To Castle Maldonato," I answered. "I will accompany thee.”

"No. I wish to rest and enjoy the autumn weather." 

Belcaro's face took on a hangdog look but I would not let myself be swayed. Now, as my coach traveled familiar roads, I was wild with hope. Surely Andrea would have forgotten his young sorrow. Surely, gazing upon me—more beautiful than ever—he would forgive. 

The sight of the towering mass of St. Francesco the spear of La Mangia against the sky made my heart beat faster. 

Alas, the artist's bottega was deserted, a smell of dust in the air. I went to the cobbler shop. "Thy artist son, good shoemaker, where is he? I wish to order a portrait.” 

The old man shook his head. “I seldom see my son these days. He has abandoned his art." 

"Abandoned his art?" I echoed with sinking heart. 

"Yes," said the old man sadly, "he went away with an itinerant monk. His name was Fra Giacomo. This monk used to sit in his workshop. At first I thought he wanted Andrea to make a statue of the Virgin for no pay ... and that would have been right and proper. Then one day ..." The father's voice broke. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with a horny finger. 

"One day?" I prompted, scarcely breathing. 

"Andrea made his bundle and went away with the friar." 

"Did he say where he was going?” 

"Nay. They may have entered some monastery. Andrea was always sad ... sad. The monk may have persuaded him to abandon the secular life.” 

"May have ...?" I cried in agony. “Dost thou not know?" 

He peered at me with a miopic stare. “The lady with the golden hair. Yes, I remember. Andrea loved thee. It was his love and thy abandonment that broke his heart and laid him open to the arguments of a persuader like the monk. Now I fear I'll never see my son again." He began to weep so bitterly that I could not endure the sight and sound. 

Where was Fra Giacomo? Find him and I might find Andrea. 

Mingling with the crowds in the marketplace, I questioned right and left. "Where does the monk, Fra Giacomo, preach these days?” 

A man—a plasterer from the white on his apron spoke up. "He does not preach nowadays. He and his followers work to build a monastery. They began with the gift of a vineyard called La Certina. It was Becchi's property. He died and his widow gave it to the friar when she retired to the Sisters of St. Ann. La Certina is three miles out of Porta Camollia.” 

My coach jolted to a halt on a dusty road bordering a vast vineyard. The first chill of autumn had turned the vines to gold. A vinegary fragrance hung in the air. A dozen contadini were harvesting the purple grapes. A tower-like press of gray stone looked down upon their labors. Passing between the rows, I searched everywhere for Andrea. 

"What can I do for the lady?" asked a burly fellow who stepped out of the tower. His legs and arms were dyed purple from treading the grape. He smiled, showing very white teeth. 

I lifted my veil. "Is there a man named Andrea de Sanctis among your workers?” 

"No," answered the man with the wine-stained feet. "Fra Giacomo? Is he here? I wish to speak to him." 

"Wait, Pietro!” I turned and saw Fra Giacomo himself approaching. “How camest thou to this place?" he said sharply, and his keen eye scanned the vineyard and the road. "Is that thy coach?” 

"Yes. I have come to commission a portrait from Maestro Andrea." 

"Andrea is not here," said the friar. "I beg thee ... leave." 

"I shall not leave until I have spoken to Andrea.” 

Fra Giacomo threw up his hands. “Then ... wait!" 

I stood in the odor of grape and the odor of dust and the bitter odor of the vines and waited until Andrea came out of the tower. He was bronzed by the sun and his arms and legs were dyed wine color. 

"Andrea!” A faintness swept over me, but looking into his eyes I saw the death of all my hopes. This man was not the Andrea I had known. His spirit was immured in a protective silence that even my voice could not disturb; yet foolishly, uselessly, I babbled my refrain. "I came to commission a portrait.” 

He stood with his hands hanging at his sides. “I do not paint portraits nowadays, Donna Bianca." 

"Then it is true that thou hast deserted thine art for this mad monk's dream! The printing of a book that is forbidden." 

Did they fear my voice would carry to where my servants and drivers waited? Andrea sprang toward me. The monk slapped an iron hand on my wrist. “Silence, woman... or we shall all perish.” 

I did not quail. "Seeest thou, Andrea? This friar has suffered tortures. He has fled from land to land. The Priory would draw and quarter him if they knew what business he is up to ... and thou and all thy fellow workers with him.” 

A white-faced Andrea spoke. “Then let us be drawn and quartered ... for it is written ... we must labor for the Word of God and the light of the people.” 

"Thou laborest for the gallows!" I cried more in anger than in fear. “Thy parroting of a lunatic monk sits ill on thy lips. Hast thou forgotten thy gift of art? It also came from God.” 

“Bianca,” said Andrea with a heavenly smile. "My art serves a nobler purpose. Didst thou not see the head and tail pieces? The woodcuts? They are my design. I gave the kneeling Magdalene thy face.” He turned and went into the tower, not heeding my cry, "Andrea! Andrea!” 

Sobbing behind my veil, I stumbled back to the coach and bade the coachman return to Maldonato. 

There I spent several days weeping, scheming. The outcome was always the same. Andrea was lost to me. My only comfort—the beautiful and holy book he'd sent me. And even this comfort was spoiled by the fear that Andrea's and Fra Giacomo's secret might be discovered. Had I not found the vineyard of La Certina? Could not some spy of the Priory discover it too? I saw in a horrid nightmare the friar's little band of workers dragged away in chains and wakened screaming. 

"Pack!” I bade Maria. “We will return to Florence.” 

Yet like the pendulum that swings right and left, I changed my mind as we neared Siena. “Take me the way we went yesterday," I said to the coachman. 

“To the vineyard, my lady?"

“To the vineyard. 

It was near the noon hour. The sun beat down. I had not taken food and I was faint with hunger. Hugging my misery, I closed my eyes and tried to pray. All I could think—Andrea! Keep him from harm. Let not a hair of his head be touched. 

Maria's cry sent a tremor through me. “Look, Donna Bianca! The vineyard is full of soldiers!” 

Leaning out of the window, I saw an exact replica of my evil dream—the tower surrounded by armed men in Medici's colors. I leaped from the coach and ran through the vines. 

Fra Giacomo, Andrea and ten others had been brought out of the wine press. They stood in a little knot-spears pointed at their breasts. 

I spoke to the captain of the company. “I am a friend of Lorenzo's. What harm have these vinters done?” 

"Orders, lady," said the captain evasively. He called to those of his men inside the wine press. "Have you found anything?" 

"No, sir,” a voice answered. “Except there's wine enough to drown a man's cares for a lifetime!” 

"Search again!" the officer commanded. 

I looked at Andrea and Andrea at me. His severe gaze seemed to say, “Leave me to my fate.” 

I took a ring from my finger, and pressed it in the captain's hand, whispering, "It is worth five hundred florins.” When his fist tightened over the ring, my hopes soared. 

Then with devilish timing the searchers came running out of the tower. “We found it! A secret cellar under the wine press. And there are hundreds of books." 

The captain made a strange gesture. “Did the lady not drop this ring?” So saying he bowed and handed me back the jewel. "Load the books into the cart. Break up the machine. Burn it!" 

I watched. Andrea and his fellow prisoners being prodded away. I watched the soldiers tossing the precious Bibles into a cart. Fra Giacomo's printing press was set on fire. The smoke of hardwood and a fragrance of mulled wine would be in my nostrils for many a day. 

"Where now, my lady?” asked my coachman. "To Florence!" I answered. 

Let Andrea languish in prison without some effort to save him? No! Never! I would throw myself at Lorenzo's feet. I would plead for his freedom in the name of mercy and the arts. 

It had not entered my mind that my husband and the feckless Nello had had a part in Andrea's and Fra Giacomo's arrest and the discovery of the printing press. 

When I entered the palace, Belcaro met me at the top of the staircase. “Home ... so soon?” 

"Yes. And I must go to seek audience of Lorenzo at once." 

"Why?" asked my husband. 

"They have arrested Fra Giacomo and ..." I could have bitten my tongue off when I saw Belcaro's strange smile. 

"Was the friar the only one? I heard they netted quite a catch of lawbreakers.” 

A gleam in my husband's eye should have warned me but I was too distracted to heed. “It is true, Belcaro. Andrea de Sanctis was arrested too.” 

“Tsk! Tsk!” said my husband with a clicking of the tongue. "What is the young man's crime?” 

"No crime, I am sure!" 

"Indeed? Then why does the Signory hold him in arrest? A little bird told me thine Andrea was conspiring against the Republic." 

"Thou!" I gasped. “Thou didst denounce him." "I did a citizen's duty,” said Belcaro in syrupy tones. "Fiend!” I seized his sleeve and shook him. 

He answered cold as winter, “Didst thou think I'd let thee keep assignations in a vineyard with thy young paramour... and not object?” 

For a moment I was speechless. Then I fell at Belcaro's feet. “Husband! Help me to save Andrea and I will be thine obedient wife forevermore. Save him and I will speak sweetly .... not abuse thee, handle thee as my own dearest joy!” 

"It is too late," Belcaro answered bitterly. "Not I... not even the Magnificent himself could save thine Andrea now."

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