Mistress of Rogues by Rosamond Marshall - Chapter 01

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!

Chapter 01

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A full moon was rising over the towers of Maldonato Castle. Mild breezes stirred the wisteria vine in bloom, bringing all the perfumes of spring into our refectory hall. But the fragrance of flowers did not chasten my husband's fierce spirits, and he saw no beauty in the moon. 

“A tongueless, witless woman across my board! And now...f... fig puddin' again!” 

"We had fig pudding only once this month, my lord, and ... I do try to converse... but thou turnest a deaf ear." 

"I say f... fig puddin' has been put before me more times than I can count! Four ... five ... six times in the month! F... fig puddin' f ... fig puddin?!" 

I would have laughed at the way my husband stuttered “f... fig puddin' ” were it not that I feared him so. With every thump of his clenched fist, he made the tumblers dance. I clutched the carved arms of my chair in trembling anticipation of the storm that would break as it had broken every night of a full moon since I had become Count Maldonato's bride. His rages did not rise all at once; he coaxed himself into them. 

"Meat's raw!” he would shout. Or “Wine's sour!” Or "Bread's stale!" Anger would darken his face as a cloud darkens the sun. He would hurl foul curses at me. His cheeks would purple. His eyes would bulge. And then, when rage possessed him like an evil spell, the lord of Maldonato would again flog his bride of a twelve-month joyless bride who followed on his chain like a she-bear with a ring through her nose. 

"Why didst thou speak so long with that peddler today?" roared Ugo. 

Gods! My husband is jealous of Bacciamo the peddler, a man who plodded from village to village and castle to castle with a pack of thread, ribbon, and trinkets on his back. I had spoken to Bacciamo, and why not? I needed a new needle for my tapestry mending. 

"Husband, he sold me but one needle." “What else did he trade behind closed doors?” "Nothing. Nothing, I swear it." 

Ugo had risen. With fury in his eye, he leaned across the table. “Thou swearest false, Bianca. What did the peddler sell thee? Poison? A dagger?” 

"Only a needle." 

But Ugo was deaf to my voice. Glowering hatred from eyes of coal, he unhooked a heavy whip from a ring on his belt, kicked back his chair, and came at me. “I'll teach thee to speak the truth!”. 

Like a lamb when the knife nears, I had been wont to freeze with fear, able to do no more than sit and let the slashing thong fall. But tonight, some stronger blood coursed in my veins. I saw the devil incarnate in Ugo's form. That such a man should use his strength against a frail woman seemed monstrous. “Thou coward," I cried. “Thou puffed-up adder! Touch me ... and it will be thy last touch of a living woman!" So saying, I seized the great meat knife from the board. 

My gesture of defiance stopped Ugo for a moment. Fists on hips, strong legs planted far apart, he wagged his black beard and said, "So ... the moth hath acquired a stinger!” 

I edged toward the door, thinking to run and bolt myself in my chamber. But Ugo came at me like a raging bull. 

Our refectory table seats twelve; it is a massive oak thing with a base of satyrs and fauns' heads. I slipped around to the other side and heard the whip crack not an inch from my ear. 

To have missed made Ugo's rage the blacker! He heaved the table on its side. Food and wine stained the marble floor. He hurdled the table and backed me into the embrasure of a window. "Kneel!” he commanded in a roaring voice. It was not his manner to fritter away his moment of madness. He liked to draw it out and watch me turn pale, stammer, and plead. He was slow in creating a pattern of bleeding flesh and raw, red welts on my naked back. He was taking his good time. I could hear that certain sucking noise he always made with his lips when his rage bubbled inside. 

Mother of God! The whip fell, and I shuddered like a tree in a gale. It was but the first blow. Ugo liked to work up—up—up to the crest of his devilish anger. I hunkered down to protect my face and breast. Let my poor back suffer! Twice, the lash wrapped itself around me. I was thrown to the floor with the force of the blows. He was breathing in noisy gulps, his big booted foot not far from my head. The kick was aiming true. 

I rose to my knees and clutched his moving foot with the strength of despair. My sudden daring caught him unawares and put him off balance. He hopped on his other foot, seeking to free himself with kicks and shaking. But I held on until—just as a terrier shakes a rat—he shook me and sent me spinning and caroming across the smooth floor. Ere I had come to a stop, I heard a great cry. Glancing up, I saw my husband stagger back against the iron guard rail, then vanish from my sight. 

Trembling like a leaf, I dragged myself to the window. Ugo seemed to have dissolved into thin air. In vain, I scanned the formations of tufa rock on which Maldonato Castle is built. They are strangely shaped, with wide crevasses and smooth, steep pinnacles. “Devil's fingers,” the contadini call them. Without a doubt, my husband was caught in one of those crevasses. I drew a sobbing breath and leaned on the rail for support. Was he dead or alive? 

The moonlit countryside spread before me in stillness and peace. 

This was the wondrous season when winter melts into spring. Under the vines, the young corn spears through the soil with that vivid greenness which is never seen twice in one year. Plum trees strew the green landscape with petals white as snow, and here and there, among the silvery sheen of the olive woods burns the rosy torch of the almond tree. 

Art thou dead, Count Maldonato? Shall I build thee a fine marble tomb and lay thee in it with thy blood-stained whip? Shall I weep lying tears over thy broken bones? I drew a long, sobbing breath and straightened my shoulders where the welts still burned like fire. Call the servants! Say ... "Search for your dead master! Tear his lifeless corpse from the grip of the Devil's fingers!" 

I started toward the door, but what was that sound? A throaty groan? Hoarse coughing? I leaned far out into the night, and my anguished gaze sought in vain to pierce the secrets of the darkness. I could hear labored breathing and scrabbling of booted steps on the rock. A sliding of pebbles. My husband was not dead! Strong and spurred by anger, he'd soon climb to safety. He'd set upon me with redoubled fury. He'd kill me! 

One thought filled my fear-crazed mind. Escape! But first—a bait for a mad dog! I stripped off my kirtle of gray cloth and threw it out the window. It floated down and caught on a jagged point of rock. Let the searchers think I'd jumped or fallen to my death. I'd win an hour of grace while they scoured the abyss for my broken body. 

I fled down the staircase to the great barred door. Shadows engulfed me as I slipped out the postern gate. Limping on one shod foot, I crept along the hedge. Where had I lost the other shoe? I paused to unbuckle and kick off the remaining one and ran on barefoot. Let me but reach the Convent of Santa Lucia at Signa; I'd be safe. The good nuns who had reared me would take me under their compassionate wing. 

Maldonato Castle sits on a hill. The houses of the peasantry nestle outside the walls. I made a detour around the cottages, past the humble chapel, and past the fountain in the piazza where the women wash their linens. 

No human eye must see me go, or I'd be brought back like a runaway goat! An owl hooted in a cypress tree. I ran on until my heart was ready to burst, and then, too weary to go any further, I sank at the foot of a crossroads marker to rest. The moon silvered its message: 

To Signa—5 leagues. To Florence—18 leagues 

“Come!' I urged myself. “Five leagues is not too much." My only haven, now, is a cloister. 

My mind whirled with a hundred fears as I rose and took a limping step. I could almost see the light of torches searching the tufa rock, probing in the crevasses. I could almost hear my husband's bull-like voice shouting, "Find her! Find her!

Even with terror as a goad, my aching flesh would not obey the command of my will. 

Suddenly a strange sound broke the stillness of the night. A sound like a dozen of Maldonato's whips cracking at once. Was my persecutor so close to me? No, these were not whips I heard but the clattering sound of many hooves. Ah, Bianca, truly thy cruel husband leaves naught to chance. His servants are on horse, ready to scour the countryside until they find thee. 

Thorns needling through my clothing, I crept under the hedge at the side of the road. Would they ride on? 

The panting of animal breath was nearer. I peered through the hedge. 

Lights? Carriages? This was no band of night-gowned hunters out to beat the fields and hedges for the wife of Count Ugo. This was a feast day parade! 

The first vehicle was a two-wheeled cart drawn by a mule with a lantern swinging from its harness. Behind this cart came a massive wagon somewhat like those in which the gypsy folk travel. But it was finer and larger and drawn by two white mules. And behind it was still another wagon of the same sort, this one painted in white and gold with sculptured gilt cupids on the four top corners! I stared in amazement while the caravan came to a halt near my hiding place. 

The driver of the cart got down from his seat and swung a lantern to the road marker. He was about to turn back when a voice called out of the dark, "Eh! Gianni! Are we on the right road?” 

“Yes, master," the driver answered. 

What prompted me to do as I did? Perhaps it was despair. I called to the driver in a quavering voice, “Please ... please ... come here." 

He turned in fear; hidden under the hedge, I was a disembodied voice. To the superstitious—a ghost! 

“Please," I called in a hoarse whisper. “Come to the side of the road." 

The driver inched over, swinging his lantern. The flickering yellow light fell upon my face and he saw who had called—

"I beg thee! Help me. Take me to Signa!" 

Again the master called through the dark. “Gianni! What's the delay? Are we lost?” 

"It's nothing, master," the driver shouted back, and he started to turn away. 

"Wait,” I pleaded. “Here, good Gianni ... this gold bracelet is thine ... if thou wilt take me to Signa!" 

The driver reached out and seized the bracelet from my hand. He looked at it, rubbed it, bit it, smelled it, and thrust it into his pocket. “All right," he muttered. "Climb up!" 

Helping me to the seat beside him, he threw a fold of his homespun cape over my knees, clucked to his mule, and we rolled on. Some cynic has called security the "suburbs of hell," but my fears calmed as I thought myself safely on my way 

to the gentle nuns who had reared me from infancy. 

"Driver,” said I, "pray do not pass the convent by. It is to Santa Lucia that I am bound.” 

He grunted. And I, exhausted by the fierce emotions of the night and lulled by the movement of the vehicle, fell asleep. 

When I wakened, it was not to see the gates of Santa Lucia—it was to look into the eyes of the strangest man I had ever seen. Deep, dark, and heavy-lidded, they were frightening eyes until he smiled, showing white teeth of unusual perfection and symmetry. His large head was crowned with a wealth of soft, curling brown hair; its opulence, combined with delicately molded and expressive features, was not matched by his small, twisted body. He was a hunchback. And as if to conceal the burden put upon him by unkindly birth, he wore a long, flowing robe of blue with a deep, pleated hood down back. The robe and a heavy jeweled chain gave him a dignity and magnificence that many a more perfect specimen of manhood would envy. 

I also noticed that his hands were unusually large, very soft and white and somewhat swollen at the knuckles as though he suffered from an inflammation of the joints. This was not so as I later discovered. No hands were more supple and adroit! 

"Fear not," he said in kindly tones. "I am Belcaro. Thou art in my care." 

I raised myself on one elbow and looked about me. This was no bed-chamber but the interior of the large, gilded wagon I had seen at the crossroads. Its walls were gayly painted with sylvan scenes. The curtains were of the finest silk. I noticed utensils of silver and Faenza ware from which my strange host had been eating. 

Standing beside the hunchback was a dwarf no larger than a three-year-old child. He was dressed in a court jester's multi-colored garb, and he wore a comical hat tipped at a rakish angle. 

"See, Belcarino?” cried the dwarf. “She wakens!"

“Yes, Nello," answered the hunchback. 

"Sir ... how came I here?" I asked in dismay. “I begged the driver to let me off at the Convent of Santa Lucia at Signa." 

"And let thee fall into the hands of an infuriated husband?” said my smiling host. 

"My husband?” 

"He came charging through the night on a black horse—reined in at the convent gates just as my caravan halted there ... and caused so much disturbance that the Mother Superior was summoned." 

“But how is it that ... that my husband did not see me... and seize me?” 

"We hid thee, dear lady. Or, I fear, thou wouldst soon have been manhandled. Thy husband was like to raise the dead with his shouts and curses. And he promised to chain his Countess Maldo... Maldo ..." 

"Maldonato." 

"Yes. He swore he'd chain his wife in his dungeon and leave her there to repent her sins... forevermore.” 

"Thank God for thy pity, sir! At the convent, I shall say a prayer for thee, morning, noon, and night.” 

"At which, the dwarf piped up in a high voice, "She's too young and fair to go to the convent, Belcarino! She's much too young and fair!" 

"Quiet, Nello!” said Belcaro, hushing the dwarf as he would a naughty child. He went to the table, poured from a silver flagon, and handed me the cup. “Drink first, then we will speak of the future.” 

I drank eagerly. It was fresh milk with a delicious flavor of spices. 

"What is thy name, Madonna?” "Bianca, sir." 

"It fits thee fair. And when didst thou become Maldonato's bride?” 

"Last year, sir, when I was only seventeen ..." I could not continue. Tears welled in my eyes and I was able only to stammer, “I will destroy myself rather than return to him.” 

Belcaro laughed. “Bianca, there are other ways than death or the convent. Sleep now. Thou hast wept enough tears to wring these lovely eyes dry.” 

And sleep I did. Sweetly, and for many hours. 

On waking, I found myself in a soft bed. The morning sun shone through latticed windows. I heard a caged bird singing. And preparing a bath in a deep earthenware basin—a middle-aged woman with ruddy cheeks who said, "I bid thee good morning, Madonna." 

"I thank thee. And who art thou, I pray?"

“Maria ... to serve thee.”

“This house?”

“It is the palace of Belcaro, madonna." 

Belcaro. Always Belcaro. "Who is this man?” I asked with lively curiosity. 

“The master will come soon,” said the maid. She beckoned. "Thy bath is waiting.” 

I was luxuriating in warm, perfumed water when the door opened, and Belcaro stood on the threshold. 

"Nay," he said, smiling when I tried to cover my nudity. "Count me not a man, Donna Bianca. I am an artist who sees nature in the light of art. Dear lady, stand up. Let me appraise thy beauty.” 

In an agony of embarrassment, I tried to slide under the water, but it was too shallow at which I folded my hands across my bosom. Even this gesture was futile. 

Belcaro smiled at my timidity. "I bade thee not to fear, lovely Bianca. Tell me, in the ten hours during which thou hast been under Belcaro's wing, has aught befallen thee except good?” 

I had to admit the truth of his words, whereupon he said kindly, "Fret not, Bianca. Belcaro is a healer of troubled hearts and a connoisseur of Mother Nature's great design. I will care for thee and protect thee and the only reward I ask is that thy beauty be not withheld from me!” 

But still I could not show myself to a strange man. Seeking support and comfort from Maria, the serving woman, I saw her motion with her eyes and her hands get up! 

Trembling, I obeyed. 

Belcaro walked around the bath, his eyes studying me. "What forms," he whispered as he walked, paused walked, and paused again. His long white hands seemed to describe my curves in the air. "What grace!” And when I shrank away, he clasped his hands in his wide silken sleeves. "I only meant to sample the texture of thy hair the most beautiful I've ever seen. They say the golden, serpentine locks of Maestro Botticelli's Venus are match less. They are wrong. Here is their match on Venus reborn." 

I was still speechless at his eloquent outburst when Nello the dwarf burst into the room and slid to a halt at the rim of my bath. “Oooh!” he said with a comic grimace. “What charms this lady has! Give her to me for a toy, Belcarino mio!” 

“Quiet, Nello!” smiled Belcaro, “or I'll stand thee in the corner.” 

The dwarf squatted beside the bath and dabbled one of his tiny hands in the water acting as unconcerned as could be. 

"Donna Bianca," said Belcaro, " 'twould be a shame to hide such beauty under the veil of a nun. Stay a while under my roof. I promise thee such amusements and delights as will make thee forget thy brutal husband and rediscover the joys of living.' 

"Ha! Ha!” cackled Nello. "I'll wager ten scudi, Belcarino, Beauty will fall into the arms of Love before another moon has waned.” 

Belcaro cuffed his dwarf softly. "Go, Nello. Thy dinner awaits thee." 

He turned to me with a smile of amusement. "Nello is mischief but harmless. Bear with him. Treat him like the child he is.” 

"Belcaro,” said I shyly, "were it not better that I repair to Santa Lucia in Signa ... not to be a burden to thee?" 

"Is the flower a burden to the soil in which it grows?” said Belcaro in honeyed tones. "Stay, Bianca, and be my guest.” 

When he had left the room, I repeated my question to the maid. "Maria, who is Belcaro?" 

The simple woman smiled proudly. "Belcaro is King of the Puppets," she said. “He is known as “The Doll master.” 

I was chagrined. This rich house, the sumptuous wagon train in which I'd ridden, their owner's grand manner all this had led me to believe that Belcaro was some high and mighty lord. Now I discovered he was only a puppeteer. A strolling mountebank. A "dollmaster!"