Chapter 11 - 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 11 

I would not surrender hope. What dungeon so close that a spider cannot enter? What gaoler so stern that gold will not make him smile? I was rich—rich enough to buy Andrea's freedom. And so began a strange chapter of my life-plotting while the Council of the Signory scratched its head and deliberated what to do with Fra Giacomo and his fellow "criminals." Because Fra Giacomo was beloved of the people who knew whereof he was accused, they dared not act with haste. 

Lorenzo the Magnificent gave me the key to their caution. "The devil with this kind of lawbreaker ... they confess too readily," he grumbled as he sat one night at my table. “The priors cannot even use torture to any good purpose.” 

"Is the guilt of the monk ... these others ... so great?" I asked the Prince. “Their crime was only to translate and print the Holy Scriptures." 

"It is a forbidden work," said Lorenzo gloomily. "Forbidden now ... but I'd take any wager, not a century will pass 'ere this printed Bible will be known in all spoken tongues and every good-wife will have one in her pocket.” 

Open-minded as Lorenzo was, he dared not go counter to the priors. And I, not daring to burden him with pleas for help, acted alone. 

First I bought the conscience of a prison guard of the Bargello where the twelve accused were imprisoned. Then the black heart of a thief—the guard's bosom friend. Meeting these rascals in secret, I showered them with 

gold and promises of more gold to come. And at last, I purchased a mean little house in a tortuous street behind the Bargello. It was a stone's throw from La Fossa—the pit where the dead by torture were thrown to rot their lacerated flesh and broken bones. 

The Priory first decided upon an auto-da-fé of Bibles. It happened on a gray day in January. A pyre was built in the square. The books were thrown into the flames. But the bonfire burned sluggishly under a fall of snow mixed with rain. 

Hidden under a market woman's cloak and hood I tried to snatch a copy from the ashes. A soldier shouldered me away. "Forbidden to touch, good woman!" 

I pleaded—even offered a bribe, and had we been alone, he might have relented. But we were not alone. 

"I'll have to arrest thee, woman!" 

I was forced to fall back among the crowd and watch the destruction of the sacred books—not calmly! I and a thousand others. took up the cry, “Blasphemy!” 

For as the priors well knew, there were thousands in Florence—indeed in many places—who revered Fra Giacomo as a God-touched person. And the people began to whisper that the snow and rainfall were an act of God, that the books should not have been burned. That the monk and his followers should be freed. 

My daring plot to save my love was beginning to shape in every detail. My little band of conspirators was ready. 

On the morning of January 27, at the stroke of nine, Andrea and his fellow prisoners were to be brought out of their dungeon and taken before the Tribunal of the Priors. At the end of the hearing they'd return to the Bargello by the same way. There was a barred door. My accomplice gaoler had the key. The door would be open. Those in the conspiracy would seize Andrea, toss a sack over his head and carry him to La Fossa. When darkness fell, they would bring him to the little house behind the Bargello. 

I was waiting in an upper room of the house and as the hours sounded in the tower, I imagined a thousand perils. Dusk falls early in January. I watched the street dark and empty except for some poor man, hurrying to the warmth of his hearth. It was not until eight of the clock that I saw a band of three hooded men come hurrying down the street carrying a great sack between them. I ran downstairs and opened the door. They set their burden at the foot of the steps. 

“We have him!” said the gaoler who was in my pay. He slit the sack with a knife. I'll always remember the sound of that blade cutting the heavy sailcloth. When the sack was opened, I saw—“Fra Giacomo!” 

“Unhappily, yes," said the monk. "But... how?” 

"Andrea is a young man with a will of iron and a fist like lead. When the moment came, he knocked me unconscious. I, not he, was put into the sack. On the way here, I recovered ... but it was too late. The wrong was done. And now the brave and generous Andrea will die ... in my place." 

I led the way upstairs with feelings so dazed that I was like a woman dead. Then when I fully realized what had occurred, I cried with a loud voice, “Thou monster! Of thy kind there are thousands. Of his kind ... only one. I know! Thou didst so play on Andrea's heartstrings that he offered his dear life for thine! I hated thee the first time I saw thee, monk! Now I hate thee more, and I will make thee my prisoner ... and barter thee for Andrea's freedom." 

The monk bowed his head. His submission made me all the angrier. 

"Confess!” I cried. “Thou didst so move Andrea with the devilish magic of thy tongue ... that he declared himself ready and joyful to burn for thy sake. May demons pull out thy deceiving tongue. May thy members consume in wheeling flames! May Charon with eyes of coal come take thee! I damn thee to the deepest circle of Hell!” 

“I see madonna has read her Dante well,” said the monk quietly. He stared into the fire, then fixing his eyes darkly circled and sad on me, “Man's span upon this earth is but a moment in eternity," he said. “Should Andrea die in grace, he will have run his good mile toward that heavenly state in which the flesh is silent ... and spirit, all.” 

I sobbed. "Andrea must live! He is young. His genius has not come to full flower. And I love him!” 

The monk rose with an effort. "What wouldst thou, Bianca? That I give myself up to the priors?”

“Yes! Yes! Give up! This time they will put thee on the rack! They will snap thy tendons and break thy bones. And I will rejoice to see thee agonize." 

He walked to the stairs and started down. 

But I called to him, “Stop!” What good to me the friar's death? "Stay here," I muttered thickly. “There's food in the cupboard. Do not leave this house until I give the word.” 

“God comfort thee!” said Fra Giacomo, making the sign of the Cross. 

That night I was like a woman cut down. I spoke not, neither did I touch food. When Nello tried to change my sad thoughts to happy ones, I sent him away. Why had Andrea given his life for that of Fra Giacomo? He must have had a powerful reason. The book? No book on earth was worth Andrea's life. 

I took the tome from the place where I had hid it and sorrowed over the pictures my love had drawn with his own dear hand. "Book, if thou art magic, give me a sign!” The words under my finger were 

Go and take the little book which is open in the 

hand of the angel..... This message was not clear to me. I was no angel. 

The morning after Fra Giacomo's rescue, I went to the Duomo—gathering place of Florentines. The Piazza della Signoria was quiet. No crowds. No agitation. And I knew from these signs that the Signory had suppressed the news of the monk's escape.

Dreadful days followed, as I turned over a hundred ideas—discarded them one by one. 

Then, like a clap of thunder, the word came. The "heretic” Fra Giacomo and his band of followers had been judged and sentenced to death by fire. 

Fra Giacomo? I knew him to be safe in the little house behind the Bargello. But the judges had spoken. Twelve criminals had been arrested, accused, found guilty—and twelve must burn. 

Mad with fear and grief, I ran to the secret house to plead with the friar, “Show thyself to the people! Appear on some balcony or in some window. Make it plain that thou art alive and at liberty. Force them to suspend the sentence and let the people know it is a substitute friar." 

So intent was I upon my new plan that I did not see a man with a hunched back following me. I'd reached the door and was about to use the knocker when a hand was clamped over my wrist and I heard my husband say, "At last! I've caught thee in the act!” 

Clinging to Belcaro with no lesser force than that with which he clung to me, I screamed loudly, “Run, padre! Run!" My screams caused a window to open in the eaves. A cowled head looked out. Still clinging to Belcaro with the strength of a maniac, I repeated my warning, "Run! padre! Take the alley!” 

Belcaro shook me off and used the knocker with fury. When no one opened the door he started to run down the street. Did he hope to catch my "lover” 

I dragged myself back to the palace and went to bed in a chill. It was more than an hour before Belcaro re-turned. 

"I broke a window at the back of the house and climbed in. Andrea de Sanctis had decamped but I found ample proof that he'd been there. Food, clothing, blankets, fuel ..." 

I began to laugh. I laughed until I cried. "What makes thee so merry?” asked Belcaro. "It was not Andrea de Sanctis who lodged there." 

Belcaro did not believe me. And I could not cease laughing and weeping. "Bianca," said Belcaro between clenched teeth, "what is thy creed? Not faithfulness. Not truth. Not thy vows. Thine oath is like the chaff that blows with the wind.” 

I tried to stop laughing. "Belcaro, on my oath like chaff, as thou sayest, I swear I have never lain with any man but thee since we were wed." 

"Lies!” he said—thickly. "Florence is full of small, secret houses where lovers meet. And if not tomorrow, then the day after, thou wilst scamper to thy sin like a mouse to cheese." 

His angry gaze struck terror to my heart. 

"Andrea de Sanctis free," he muttered, “I'll never have another moment's peace. I should have killed him then ..." He clapped his hands to call a servant. "Bring wine!” he said to the Nubian who was always on watch outside my door. 

I threw myself on the bed, too spent to utter another word. 

When the Nubian returned, Nello came tumbling in behind him. "I'll drink with Bianca and thee,” said the little fellow. Belcaro reached for the wine but Nello was quicker! He seized the decanter and capered across the room, dodging and twisting among the furniture, always a little out of Belcaro's reach. 

"I'll whip thee when I catch thee,” scolded my husband. 

"Nay, do not whip me, kind Belcaro," said Nello in mock fright. "Give me a glass of wine. Drink a toast with me.” 

When Belcaro assented with a surly grunt, Nello put the tray down with great care, removed the stopper from the decanter and poured two glasses. "Belcaro! I drink to thy good health.” 

My husband drained his glass to the last drop. A moment later he clutched at his throat, groaned a deep groan and toppled from his chair. I screamed and rose to call for help but Nello barred my way. 

"No physician can save him, Bianchissima. The poison Belcaro distills ... is death. Look! His eyes bulge. His nails claw his vitals. Belcaro dies!” 

I swooned with horror. When I regained my senses, I was lying on my bed. Maria was fanning me. Nello was seated cross-legged on the bolster, picking his teeth with a gold pick. And the corpse—gone! 

"Maria?”

“Yes, mistress!"

"Belcaro?” 

“The master ... is dead,” sniffled Maria. "His servants are preparing him for burial.” 

I sent Maria away and turned to Nello. "Speak! Do I dream? Can it be true?” 

The little man extended his hand. "See this gold ring? Remember Belcaro's poisons at the Villa Gaia and how I settled the affairs of thy husband, Count Ugo di Maldonato?" Nello added with a cackling laugh, "Belcaro had a dose of his own poison." 

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