Chapter 12 - 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 12 

The flower of Florence accompanied the Doll-master to his tomb in Campo Santo. I watched the procession leave the palace and saw many an eye turn upward as if to plead their noble owner's chances for succession and a second wedding. Assuredly, I was the wealthiest widow in the city—and the unhappiest. But my tears were not for the Doll-master Indeed, a terrible joy moved me to spasms of alternate weeping and laughter. Free. Free! No more to feel the hard hand of Belcaro upon me. No more to suffer his love-making. No more to fear a spy at my shoulder and a poisoner at my table. 

The sadness of Lent had descended on the populace. Pleading my bereavement and the duties of religion, I closed my doors, made the music be still and hung crepe over my windows. But in this pious shade, I never ceased to work for one goal—Andrea's freedom. 

Some youths from among the artisan's guilds—wool spinners, bakers, tanners, stonemasons who called themselves the Wolves—had begun to riot in the city, demanding that Fra Giacomo and his followers be declared innocent of all guilt and freed. Posters appeared on the walls. The Signory received threatening letters signed with a crude drawing of a wolf's head. 

The leader of the Wolves proved to be one Gino Mariano. Nello, acting as my courier, summoned Mariano to my presence. A firebrand of a man, Gino's bold black eyes did not cease to stare. 

"I once saw thee in the Duomo, madonna. I never thought to see ... to speak to La Bella Bionda ... in this manner.” 

I knew I had captured the young man's interest. Now I must enlist his loyalty. “Art thou for Fra Giacomo?” 

“With all my heart." "How many Wolves canst thou muster in his service?"

"One hundred. Two hundred. More if need be.”

"Willing men? Brave men?” Gino Mariano smiled. “Why do they call us Wolves?" 

Gold would not buy Gino Mariano—but a soft word was potent. 

He did not know that the priors had condemned a false Fra Giacomo to burn at the stake—and I took care not to enlighten him. What the Wolves would do for Fra Giacomo, they would never risk for an unknown named Andrea de Sanctis. 

On the day set for the execution, Gino and his Wolves were prepared. The morning dawned bright. I left the palace alone, wearing a widow's crepe. In my heart, hope. 

Gino Mariano and five of his most trusted lieutenants were disguised as farmers come to market with their produce. Each man had his donkey and each donkey carried two large baskets slung over its back. These baskets appeared to be filled with greens; in reality they were empty. Green stuffs were wired onto a net that could be taken off like the lid of a pot. 

Piazza della Signoria was jammed from the earliest hour as thousands pressed in to see the burning of twelve martyrs. Two tribunals had been erected on the palace balcony. In one would sit the seven priors. In the other, the Gonfalonier and his court. 

A scaffold had been raised which occupied about a fourth of the square between the balcony and the Tetto dei Pisani. At the end of the scaffold a thick upright head was fixed, with another beam fixed to it at right angles, near the top. It had been shortened several times to make it look less like a cross. But the sign was still there and the people whispered that this was an ill omen for those who were preparing to "crucify” the friar and his followers. At the foot of the structure was a great heap of materials for burning, which the soldiers of the Signory were trying to protect from the screaming mob. 

My heart was beating wildly, for among that mob were Gino Mariano's Wolves, ready to move at a signal from their leader. 

The first of the condemned men to come out of a small door were strangers to me. Dressed in sackcloth and with close-shaven heads, they looked more sorrowful than frightened. 

A roar went up when the crowds recognized the familiar brown frock worn by Fra Giacomo. The face of the man posing as the friar could not be clearly seen. He wore his cowl pulled over his forehead; but his strong chin and dark skin were so like the friar's that even I might have been deceived had I not known the truth. 

Slowly, the twelve victims marched up the steps of the scaffold. None seemed to falter. None hung back. The crowd was moved by their brave appearance, and began to mutter in their anger. 

The soldiers seized the condemned men and chained their hands behind their backs. They were chained to the great cross beam. And waiting there, like men already hung, they heard their doom—"To be burned until dead ... and may God have mercy on their souls.” 

The priors entered and took their seats. The crowd turned expectant eyes upon the palace window to see the appearance of the Gonfalonier and his court. That window remained empty. Lorenzo would not attend the burning. And this made the crowds restless. Drums rolled. The executioner put the torch to the pyre. I felt a great chill go through me as I heard murmurings. "Pardon the innocent! O pardon!” These murmurings ceased as the first flames shot up through the kindling. 

The Wolf leader took off his yellow hat and scratched his head. The signal for his men to act. Suddenly knots of men began a rowdy display on the west side of the piazza. The soldiery rushed forward with halberds lowered to fence off the quarrelers but as everyone knows who has watched Florentines in fury, they could not keep the trouble from spreading. Another fight started on the opposite side of the square, and another near the scaffold itself. 

Then to cap the climax, fireballs began to fall. This was Gino's finest invention. He and his companions had made hundreds of pitch-balls mixed with wool combings and stowed them at strategic points on the rooftops. Two men were stationed at each pile, one to light and one to throw. The results may be imagined. I heard a woman scream, “ 'Tis heaven's fire descending on us!” Soon, thousands were milling, pushing, screaming, kicking, hitting, taking sides in a battle royal. 

Meanwhile a dozen Wolves, recognizable by their yellow hats, had climbed the scaffold and come to grips with the soldiery. Others hauled up goatskins and poured water on the flames. Others struck off the prisoners' chains. 

I clung to an iron railing and saw the twelve torn from the scaffold. Then, as by sorcery, they vanished! 

Frightened by the rain of fireballs, the crowd began to scatter. In less time than it takes to tell, the piazza was empty. A most audacious plot had succeeded! And a little band of contadini with their donkeys and baskets would be leaving Florence by separate ways. 

I had given Gino orders to bring Andrea de Sanctis to the little house behind the Bargello. Trembling and weak-kneed in anticipation of the meeting with my beloved, I hurried there. 

Andrea was pale, thin, drawn—a mere shadow of the man I had known and loved. "How thou hast suffered!" 

I cried. "My love, let me bring thee back to strength and health." 

But his first words were, “Fra Giacomo? Hast news of him?” 

"He is living." "Where?" "I know not." 

Like a man wearied from long night watches, Andrea rubbed his hollow eyes. “Forgive me, Donna Bianca. I must seek him." 

"Andrea,” I pleaded, "canst think of nought save ... Fra Giacomo?" 

A feverish light beamed in his eyes. “Knowest thou what it means to have found a rudder for one's ship of life? I was a child, playing with clay. Then I met Fra Giacomo and became ... a thinking man. From that moment on, I lived for one purpose ... the Book. To print it, send it on its healing course and print again. I was happy. And now ..." His voice broke. He sat down near the fire. Were his tears weakness or had Andrea become as fanatic as his monkish leader? 

"Andrea!” I pleaded. "Hast thou not heard? Belcaro is dead. I am free to love thee and to further thy pathway to fame and fortune. Dear heart, all I have is thine! We will leave Florence and go to my Villa Belvedere near Genoa. Thou wilt create great works and I will sit at thy feet, adoring thee." 

He sprang up in agitation. “No ... no ... the Book is my life.” 

"They burned thy books. They burned thy press and all the works that put thee in a dungeon ... and would have burned thee." 

He stopped me with a sharp denial, “One copy of the Book remains. The copy I sent thee.. 

"Belcaro destroyed it!” I cried before he could finish. What made me lie? 'Twas my fear that he would risk his life again. Rejoin the fanatic monk. Build another press. Carve new wood blocks. Persist in the forbidden work. 

The light went out of his eyes. “Destroyed!” he muttered. “The Book ... destroyed.” 

My heart ached with pain, but I persisted in the falsehood. “Forget this endeavor that nearly cost thy life. Andrea, take up thy chisel. Turn to thy art." 

"No! No!” he cried. "I have dedicated all my life to one work. Fra Giacomo will make a new translation of the Holy Word. We shall begin anew." 

"Where dost thou think to find the friar?” I exclaimed. "I'll find him," said Andrea stubbornly. 

"Not ... the vineyard! He'd be more astute than to return to La Certina." 

Andrea seemed eager to tell me his secret. "We have a drop for messages in my father's cobbler shop." 

"Thy father's shop would be the first place the Priory would search," I protested. 

“Let them search," smiled Andrea. "They'll find nought except a poor workman's tools ... old shoes ... scraps of leather. Yet I promise ere the moon is waned, I'll know Fra Giacomo's whereabouts. Our work will go forward according to the will of God.” 

“God?” I cried. “Methinks it is the mad monk whose will commands thee.” And weeping I pleaded, "Andrea, this endeavor can lead only to disaster. If ever thou didst love me, give up! Give up!" 

Andrea's answer was gentle—but firm. "Forgive me, Bianca, if I speak another language.” 

"Andrea!” I cried, "remember our love. Remember our hopes. The works of art thou wert destined to create ...

"Madonna ... plead no more." 

Such was my anger and despair that I drew back and slapped his cheek. My hand left a mark that reddened quickly. "Fool! Ingrate! Then go! But if they seize thee again, I'll not lift a finger to keep thee from burning." 

For a moment Andrea stared at me in sorrow, then he raised a hand. Benediction or farewell? Silently he left. The door swung on its hinges—and I was alone. 

A clatter on the stairs. A patter of footsteps on the threshold. Nello tiptoed in. 

"Nello!" I said despairingly, “thou mightest as well have poisoned Bianca too, for in the eyes of the only man I've ever truly loved ... Bianca Fiore is dead." 

It was midsummer. I moved my household to Fiesole to escape the broiling heat of the city. 

Giardini incantati. The fireflies danced. The evenings were freshened by gentle breezes, but I found no pleasure in my "enchanted gardens” until a new idea began to stir in my mind. 

"The Book is my life," Andrea had said. What if I were to go to him and say, “The Book was not destroyed—” offer to join in the great work? What better place to build a press and print the Bible than the Villa Belvedere in Genoa? Let Fra Giacomo join us there. Devil or saint! Anything to be near Andrea. 

The idea so fired me that I began to prepare for the same pilgrimage that I had made once before—to Siena where I hoped to receive news of Andrea and the monk from Andrea's shoemaker father. 

Planning to leave at dawn, I was attending to last-minute packing when the Magnificent's visit was announced. He had as his companion a merry-faced little man whose beard hung down to his belt. 

“We were strolling in the cool of the evening..." said the Prince. “Passing thy gates, we came to ask news of thy health.” 

I assured Lorenzo that my health was good-hoped my visitors would leave. But Lorenzo waved to the little man with the long beard. 

"Here is the wisest sage in all Europe, the scholar d'Albert. He boasts as many degrees as his beard has inches. Director of the Scola Philosophorum of Paris, his especial study is the science of astrology. Question him, Bianca, he will tell thee thy past and thy future.” 

"I know my past, O Magnificent," I answered. But Lorenzo laughingly said, “What of thy future?” 

Nothing would do but that I serve wine to the gentlemen and sit and listen to their discourse. 

"The future cannot be told prestissimo, as you Italians say,” said Doctor d'Albert. He praised the wine, the gardens, the architecture of the villa and continued, “To know thy future, belle dame, I must first chart the celestial bodies that ruled the heavens when this world received thee." 

"Chart Venus," laughed Lorenzo. "If there's a heavenly body called Fortune, it might also serve to tell the Lady Bianca's future.” 

Doctor d'Albert stroked his beard and gazed at me from under foxy brows. “Give me thy hand, jolie dame. Perchance thy palm will reveal thy fate.” 

While Lorenzo sipped his wine, the Doctor seemed to scan the lines of my palm but his bright and merry eyes were attempting to read me. 

“We have here ... the sign of Cupid. This line, deep graven as by an etcher's burin, is the line of love." 

"Aye!" agreed Lorenzo, nudging my arm. “What more dost thou see, d'Albert?" 

“She will go on a journey by land,” said the Doctor. "Ah?” exclaimed Lorenzo. "Is it true, Bianca?" 

"The learned Doctor is amazing," I answered. "I leave for my Castle Maldonato near Siena at dawn.” 

Lorenzo's jeweled hand cut through the air with an imperious gesture. “No! Stay away from Siena!” 

“Why, my lord?” I queried in amazement. 

Lorenzo frowned. “A few cases of the Black Death have broken out in Siena.” 

“The plague!" exclaimed the Doctor and I in unison. 

“Yes," said Lorenzo. “A family of Sienese, traveling to Florence, have been taken to our lazaret. I have ordered all roads closed. No person shall leave or enter Florence until further notice." 

A chill swept o'er me. The Black Death in Siena! 

Saluting my hand in farewell, the Prince whispered, "Keep the bad news a secret, Bianca, and give up all thought of going to Siena until the danger is past." 

I paced the gardens in great upheaval of mind. The Prince's warning did not frighten me. I thought only of Andrea. Now more than ever I must find him, and where to start except in Siena? 

Alas, news of the plague seeped through to my servants. I heard Maria muttering to herself. She threw down a garment that she had been folding. "Madonna ... they say there's the pest in the Sienese region. I, for one, would not care to risk my life going to Castle Maldonato.” 

I called my steward Belotti. "Pest or no pest, I shall leave at dawn." 

"Madonna," he protested, "I could not persuade a single equerry to ride with thee." 

"Then I will ride alone.” Here Nello piped up. “I'll go with thee, Bianchissima." 

“Keep the little man here," I said to Belotti. “If need be, lock him up." 

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