Chapter 14 - 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 14 

I had a dream that night. A whirlwind swept through the palace and carried the children away. I saw their little hands reaching to me through the blackness. Their feeble cries, "Sister Carita! Sister Carita!” pierced my heart. Wakening, I found myself bathed in cold sweat. 

I prayed—then, calmer, I arose and went to the place where I had hid the Book. A fragrance of rose and amber came from the silks and satins that I had once flaunted as I reached into the clothes press and brought forth the precious tome, more precious than the gems in a king's crown. Andrea, Fra Giacomo and many more had died the death of martyrs for its sake. What an awesome bequest for me, frail servant of God's will! 

I leafed the sacred pages. "Lorenzo is a man of open mind," Fra Giacomo had said. But Lorenzo had given the friar unto burning. I'd think twice before trusting the Medici. 

I had returned the tome to its hiding place when Nello stepped out from behind a curtain. "So... that is where the picture book was hid!” he clamored, pointing to the clothes press. 

"Nello," I pleaded, "thou hast kept other secrets. Keep this one. Never tell that thou hast seen the Book.” 

Frowning and grimacing, he drew near. "Thou art so changed, Bianchissima." 

“Call me Sister Carita, dear Nello."

"It is not thy name.”

"It is. I was baptized of a new birth.” 

Nello scratched his thatch of black hair. “Methinks thou hast taken leave of thy senses, Bianchissima, to fill the palace with a horde of monsters! Why can we not have music? Let the Nubians come back. They carried me on their shoulders and played dice with me. And thou .. dress thyself in thy bright silks. Throw off that veil which hides thy golden hair." 

“Nello," I said firmly, "there'll be no more wearing of silks. No dancing and feasting and carousing." 

"And no more making love?" asked the little man, cocking his head. “Are thy amusements ended?" 

“No love for me, Nello, except it be divine.” 

He stamped his little foot. “Thou art like the lioness who turns from tearing her kill to lap a dish of milk. I hate the new Bianca. I hate her.” He ran away. 

Now I feared for the precious Book. Nello would dare whate'er his spite prompted. I wrapped it in a plain napkin, slit one of my down pillows, slipped it inside, and sewed the seam as good as new. Then I carried pillow and bedding to the children's wing and made my bed. The Book would stay close to me! As close as the pillow under my cheek. 

Belotti lost no time making up a power of attorney. A notary witnessed the signing. 

Now a strange chill settled over my grand house where princes once dined and danced and a woman called La Bella Bionda paraded her beauty. 

It was a bitter winter. The winds whistled down from the snow-clad Appenines and rattled at our windows—not so snugly cased as the grand apartments below. Yet, I hesitated to go counter to the steward's arrangements and move my brood downstairs. 

"They would make firewood of the furniture,” said Belotti. “Upstairs, there is nothing to destroy." How true! My servants had lived in drafty garrets without heat and with little light. The ceilings were low and rough-raftered. The floors were plain deal. Belotti provided braziers to cook on, and the Sisters and I labored mightily to keep our wards fed. 

What we lacked was warm clothing; and to supply this need I rifled the clothes chests and brought out fine wool capes and cloaks and doublets which we cut over and sewed to the children's size—so that little Nina could be seen dancing about in a green velvet frock, Gianni in scarlet cloth, Tina in purple. And for each child we sewed warm hooded cloaks out of bedding wool. As for shoes—I called upon a cobbler to supply sturdy footwear. The leather for this large order came from Belcaro's own store room where he kept fine leather to make his puppets shoes and boots. 

Nello, wandering morosely through the halls that had been filled with revelry, had begun to yield to the call of the children, "Nello. Come play with us." But he sulked when I spoke to him and he harassed the Sisters, especially Sister Martha, "La Grassa.” She was his whipping boy. 

"Eh! Fat one! The price of sows is high in the marketplace today. Go auction thyself off." 

Sister Martha was not slow to retort. “Go to, gristle head. Thou wouldst look fine spitted, with an apple in thy mouth!” 

I was restless and ill at ease in our temporary quarters. So many of our children were tiny tots who needed better beds and warmer quarters, and Belotti was slow in carrying out my wishes. He was often absent. When he returned to Florence, he answered my questions evasively. 

"I hope soon to find a proper refuge for madonna's orphanage.” 

"Make haste, Belotti. I'd fain sell this stone hulk and move my children to a better home. Or else ... I shall set to work and adapt it to our needs. The ballroom can be turned into a dormitory for the boys. The theater, into a chapel; the salons...”

"Have a little patience, my lady,” remonstrated the steward. 

I pressed him earnestly. "Hast thou tried to sell the Villa Belvedere in Genoa?” 

"I tried, my lady. But these are bad times. There are few buyers of properties like the Villa Belvedere." 

“Castle Maldonato? It is small and the land is good.” 

“I had a nibble for Castle Maldonato. The person may decide to buy." 

“My villa at Fiesole?" 

"I placed it on the market, my lady. But buyers for hilltop villas are rare in wintertime." 

I tried to recall the deeds of properties that I had wrested from Belcaro. “It seemed to me there was much land, many houses, Belotti. Where are the deeds, that we may come to some decision concerning my affairs?" 

"I see.” said Belotti coldly. “Does my lady no longer trust me?" He departed on another hunt for our ideal orphanage. 

We Sisters swept, baked, cooked, sewed, made fires, washed, sang hymns and cared for our charges. But with the bursting of spring, I longed to give my children country air, green playing fields and the shade of trees. 

I let them invade our court of La Paletta, the gardens and the loggias. They were barred from the salons for fear they might break or ruin priceless treasures which I hoped to sell. These days, Nello was the children's best playmate. 

They never ceased to marvel at his man's strength contained in a body no larger than theirs. He jumped, tumbled, juggled balls, swung from the beams, turned somersaults for their pleasure. He let them ride him like a tiny horse. They capered and laughed from morning till night. But Nello did not relent in my regard. 

"Thou art hideous in that robe," he would mutter. And again, "Thou didst smell of flowers. Now thou hast a perfume of onions!” 

At last Belotti brought good news. The Convent Monte Speranza was for sale. Mount Hope! A good name. 

"It lies fifteen leagues north of Florence," Belotti said. "The edifice is in good shape and large enough to house a thousand. There's a chapel and offices; kitchens, services and a dairy. The buildings stand on the crest of Monte Speranza, dominating the valleys around. There are vine yards and pastures for milch cows; a pool for washing and a perennial spring, tank and wells; groves of oak and juniper grow out of the rock on which the house is founded. I saw fig and almond trees as well as pears and apples. There are walks with borders of rose trees and rosemary. Truly a fine establishment and the price ..." Belotti snapped his fingers, "just right." 

I was eager to visit this Mount of Hope. "Let us leave at once, good Belotti." 

“Will my lady give me until tomorrow?” smiled the steward. “I need a change of clothing ... and to visit my barber.” 

Sister Martha and I set out on mule-back at dawn, Belotti riding his fine mare. 

The scents and sounds of spring hailed us on every side. Butterflies fluttered among the thorn. The cuckoo called from the glade. 

A steep and winding road led to a mass of red buildings that crested a high hill of chalk and tufa rock. At about a half-mile from the gates, a narrow ridge formed a natural bridge between two cliffs. We rode through a double file of cypresses to a grand machiolated gateway with terra cotta statues of the Virgin and Child on the exterior and of Saint Dominic within. The church and convent were built of brick with terra cotta ornaments. 

Of the three hundred or more nuns who once inhabited this great pile, only three were left as caretakers. The great cloister covered with precious frescoes representing the history of Saint Dominic won my heart at first glance. 

"Thou art the best steward in the world, Belotti! This is the house ideal for our little ones." 

Sister Martha, Belotti, the nuns and I shared a simple repast of milk, dried figs, cheese and bread, then Belotti took himself off to a house of pilgrims. 

Shown to cots in a vast, echoing dormitory, Sister Martha retired and was soon asleep. But sleep would not come to me. Pacing the cloisters that were lighted by a full moon, I gazed at the frescoes with wonder. 

The artist had drawn the saint in white robes, among his companions the friars. Whether praying or working miracles for the poor, Dominic was a figure of bronzed and weather-beaten strength. No weak and pallid martyr he, but a fighter for the rights of the humble. One part of the fresco caught my eye in particular. Here, the artist had portrayed tall, lithe, high-bred men with flesh like steel. The close-fitting fashions of a hundred years ago, hose and jackets all variegated with flaming and fantastic patterns in white and blue and scarlet were no disguise for supple limbs and tense sinews, no veil of bodies both terrible and perfect. Defiant or merely disdainful, with pride of physical strength and blood untamed, the young men stood with hand on sword-hilt or hip, the beautiful head with its careless look and rippling gold hair set haughtily on the springy neck, the whole fierce and radiant animal alert for pleasure. 

I must order these unbashed warriors with backward rolling locks and sensuous lips covered with a pious blanket of white lime! 

When morning broke, we thanked the caretaker nuns, made them an offering and rode back to Florence. 

"Purchase the property, good Belotti," I said to my steward. "None better could be found if we searched a hundred years.” 

To my great pleasure and surprise, he announced that he had found a buyer for Castle Maldonato. "The convent can be thine in a few days, my lady.”

A week later, Sister Ursula, Sister Beata, Beppo and I set out for Monte Speranza in high humor. We would prepare the way for the children; they were to follow in wagon caravan headed by Fra Angelo, Sister Martha and Nello. I had in a purse beneath my robe a goodly sum with which to pay for food and services from the contadini in the Monte Speranza region. 

Wrapped in a blanket roll—my pillow with its precious filling—the Book. Our retreat would be its resting place until such time as divine will would show me how to fulfill Andrea's dying bequest. “Golden Angel, take the Book. Spread its message ..." 

Our journey was easy and uneventful until we reached the narrow bridge between the cliffs and there paused to gaze at the red brick mass of the convent on the hill. 

"It is beautiful," exclaimed Sister Beata. 

"And big enough for a thousand children," chimed in Sister Ursula. 

“The edifice is in ..." said Beppo. The words died on his lips as a band of hooded men leaped from the shadows of the oak brush and fell upon us with daggers. I heard Beppo groan as he fell. Sister Ursula fought like a tigress, but she was murdered. Sister Beata breathed a long sigh and fell in a pool of blood. The assassins had not touched me. 

I urged my mule up the hill. Dismounting I burst through the gates. “Sisters! Sisters!” My voice started echoes through the empty corridors. I turned in time to see the gates swing shut and hear an iron sound of bolts and keys. 

A hand gripped my wrist. A hooded ruffian dragged me down a flight of stairs into a dark cellar. A barred door clanked shut. I fell on the stones, unconscious. 

When I returned to consciousness, I was resting on a couch in a great room that I had not seen when we visited the convent. It was made in the semblance of a throne room. Red velvet curtains formed a dais under which was placed a massive chair. 

I looked at my raiment and gasped. My robe had been taken from me. I was dressed in silks and jewels like the Bianca of old. Filled with terror, I leaped from the couch and tried each of four high doors. They were locked. I ran to the windows. They were barred. 

There in the distance I saw a sight that made my blood run cold. Those same hooded men were dragging the white-clad corpses of Sisters Ursula and Beata to a grave. Poor Beppo soon followed. They plied shovels in haste and departed, leading three of our four mules. 

I watched them out of sight with feelings indescribable. Why? Who? Had Belotti turned traitor? 

Suddenly I remembered—the Book! Quaking with fear I ran to the couch and touched the pillow on which I had been resting. Empty! Empty! 

I was not let to mourn the loss! "Ah! Bianca!" 

I turned and saw, seated on the gilded throne—Bel caro! 

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