And you, I responded.
As I watched him slip out the door, I felt a sudden conviction that our next encounter would come too soon.
Chapter Four
I spent that evening staring at the gilded illustrations on the cards. At times, the images evoked something very like recognition in me, so much so that for long moments, I was able to forget my worry. When exhaustion overwhelmed me, I stacked the cards neatly and returned them to the box, which I hid in the trunk at the foot of the bed.
I slept poorly that night, pulled from sleep again and again by the clatter of frozen rain pelting Bonas window. By dawn, the storm had passed, leaving the glass coated with a wavy layer of ice; even though the window stayed closed and shuttered, the groaning of the trees was audible, and the occasional ear-splitting crack of a breaking limb made me start. By midday, all clouds had cleared, and the sun gained strength. The ice on Bonas window began to melt, revealing the hunting park beyond, glazed and glittering like a jewel.
On the sixth day before Christmas, all at Castle Pavia were filled with festive cheer as preparations for the procession to Milan intensified; even Bona had forgotten her distress over the incident with the young woman and my reaction to the triumph cards. The season inclined Bona to be even more generous than usual. She feted her servants and courtiers in the great dining room, setting out the Milanese sweet bread called panneton, cheese, and good wine. I had no taste for any of it. When the duchess kindly released me in the early afternoon to do as I wished, I went to light the fire in Matteos quarters, then climbed the southwest tower steps and stood staring out toward Rome for hours.
They came at dusk, galloping across the Lombard plain: a solitary horse and rider, black against the graying sweep of snow and ice and sky. I let go a cry of infinite relief; my breath clouded the glass, and I wiped it away, compelled and squinting as I struggled to recognize the rider.
At last he reached the moat, reined in his horse, and shouted for the castellan to lower the drawbridge. Only then did I see the body slung over the saddle; I gasped and pressed my fingertips to the freezing glass.
Somehow I calmed myself, gathered my skirts, and hurried down the stairs. I ran outside, across the cold, endless courtyard to the main gate just as the horses hooves struck a last, hollow thud against the wooden bridge and passed, ringing, onto the cobblestones inside the gate.
I ran to Matteo, his belly pressed against the saddle, his long legs hanging down one flank of the lathered steed, his head and torso down the other, his arms horribly limp and dangling. He would have slipped easily to the ground had the rider not held him firmly in place.
I cried out, thinking he was dead, but when the rider dismounted and helped him slide into my arms, he groaned.
I do not remember the rider carrying him to his bed or shouting for the doctor. Others ran to help, but I do not remember them at all. Of the breathless moments before the doctor came, I recall fragments: Matteos hazel eyes, the whites now red, sparkling, utterly lost; Matteos brow and cheeks, an ugly mottled violet; his skin slick and glistening; Matteos limbs, spasming as cramps seized his gut. I held his head as he retched yellow-green vomit streaked with bright blood. I wiped his sunken face with a cold cloth that appeared magically in my hand and called his name, but he did not know me.
If I had to lose him, if he had to die, why did he not die as the Hanged Man, limp, peaceful, resigned? Why did he have to suffer horribly? God is merciful, Bona said, and just, but there was no mercy, no justice in Matteos dying, only the most savage cruelty.
Plague, someone whispered, and crossed himself, but it was not plague. Bonas physician appeared with leeches and a bitter draught, but Matteo vomited up what little he was able to swallow, and his limbs convulsed so violently at times that he crushed many of the leeches and the doctor removed the rest for fear of losing them.
Fever, the doctor said, but it was like no fever I had ever seen. Matteos master Cicco came, his huge bulk huddled, his tiny eyes wide, his rounded features slack with fright; Matteo did not know him, either, and he did not stay long. Bona came and said that I must resta ridiculous suggestion, I thought, for I had no idea then that it was nearly dawnand that she would sit with Matteo. I sent her away. I sent the doctor away. I sent the hovering rider away, until my husband and I were alone.
As the morning light filtered through the open shutters, Matteos thrashing eased at last, and I closed them, hoping he might sleep. Amazingly, the hearth was still crackling; someone must have stoked it. As I turned to where my husband lay, his long, naked torso and limbs motionless against the dark soaked sheets, I heard a rasping croak.
Lorenzo.
I moved swiftly to the chair by the bedside and put my cool hand to his cheek. His eyes were frighteningly dull; the purple flush had faded from his cheeks, now ashen.
Lorenzo has gone back to Florence, I said. There was no point in mentioning Lorenzos diversion to the north in hopes of a secret rendezvous. His Magnificence was already well on his way home. You must not worry about him now.
His eyelids fluttered. Dea, he gasped. His voice was so hoarse as to be unrecognizable; his throat must have been terribly sore.
I pressed my knuckles to my lips. Oh, Matteo. Matteo, my poor darling . . .
I am dying, he whispered, and I felt as though I would meltmy blood, my bones, my fleshand only the blinding pain in my throat and chest would remain.
I wont let you, I sobbed, but he gestured desperately, impatiently with his right hand. He was so weak that I had to fall silent to hear him.
My quill, he said.
I ran to his desk, retrieved the quill, and lifted the inkpot from its place, my hands shaking, clumsy. I fetched a piece of parchment along with his little lap desk, and propped him up against the pillows.
Once situated, he tried to dip the nib into the inkpot I held for him, but tremors plagued him; he dropped the quill. He squeezed his eyes shut and let go a moan of frustration, then gathered himself and looked back at me. His lips were dove gray and trembling.
Swear, he whispered.
Anything, I said. Anything for you.
It pained him to speak; sweat dripped from his forehead as he formed the words. On your life, he gasped. Take me to San Marco. And my papers . . . Read them in secret. Tell Lorenzo: Romulus and the Wolf mean to destroy you.
He fell abruptly silent.
I swear, I said.
As I spoke, his body stiffened, and he let go a terrible strangled sound and lost control of his bowels. For several seconds, he lay thusstiff and tremblingand then his arms and legs began to thrash. I cried his name and tried to hold him down, lest he harm himself, but I was not strong enough.
In the end, he fell still; his eyes closed, and his breathing grew harsh. Half an hour later, it stopped, and his eyes slowly opened; I looked in them and knew that he was dead.
I stripped the soiled sheets and set them outside, and used the basin of water someone had left behind to wash my husband. When he was clean, I dressed him in his finest tunic and leggings, then lay down beside him and held him until someone knocked upon the door.
I did not answer, but I had forgotten to throw the bolt and Bona entered. She tried to coax me away; I would not hear, would not leave Matteo. She left, and when she came again, she brought others, including Cicco, his foolish hair disheveled from sleep. The lumbering bear of a man, normally stoic, burst out weeping at the sight of Matteo, his star pupil. He tried gently to pull me from my husband, but again, I would not go; he had to recruit a second man. I clawed and kicked, to no avail; they caught my arms and tore me from my beloved.
I screamed, I thrashed; the sobbing Cicco held me lest I hurt myself. When I finally grew tired and had to sit, Bona convinced me to take a sip of strangely bitter wine. She had brought her priest, Father Piero, and after I had fallen into a strange state between sleep and waking, Father Piero told me, You must accept this. We are human and frail, and do not understand as yet, but it is Gods will.
God is a murderer, I said listlessly, and a liar. He bids us pray, yet will not hear us. He sets evil men over us, and takes no pity on their victims.
Dea, Bona chided, aghast. God have mercy on you! She crossed herself, covered her eyes with her hands, and wept.
I turned calmly to her. When did He hear us? When did He ever hear us?
She never answered. To my astonishment, a scarlet-robed cardinal entered and produced a vial of holy oil, dipped his finger into it, and touched my darlings eyes, ears, nose, lips hands, feet, and loins, praying: Per istam sanctam unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus . . .
Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy may God forgive whatever sins you have committed . . .
Matteo needed no forgiveness, I decided. It was God who needed to apologize to my husband.
When Bonas draught had left me sufficiently compliant, Francesca and the chambermaids took me away to the duchesss room and dressed me in black skirts that were too long, and a veil that filmed the world darkly; I did not care. I did not want to see.
Miserable, pointless hours passed, after which I was taken to the ducal chapel to discover Matteo in front of the altar, lying in a wooden box, his arms crossed, a crucifix over his heart. The votive candles I had lit for his safety still burned upon the altar. I threw them across the room, ignoring the startled gasps of onlookers and the scalding wax that spilled down my arm.
I did not sleep at all that first night.
The next day, I sat beside Matteo in the chapel, Bona at my side, while most of the courtiers filed past his body. In the midst of familiar faces, one unknown appeared, with beard and hair and eyes black and shining as jet. I did not know him, yet felt I had laid eyes upon him before. He bore a saddlebag slung over his shoulder, and when he approached, he went down upon one knee and presented the saddlebag as if it were a gift.
I realized then that he was the rider, the man who had broken away from the caravan of papal legates my husband was leading from Rome to Milan, in order to bring Matteo swiftly home. He had remained in Matteos room, awaiting the outcome, until I had thrown him out.
This was your husbands, Madonna, he said. His voice was deep and soft, his gaze averted; if he felt any emotion, it was carefully contained. He asked me to be certain you received it. He looked to be Matteos age and would have been pretty enough to capture the dukes attentionGaleazzo occasionally indulged in affairs with his male staffhad it not been for his great sharp nose.
I thanked him. The bag was heavier than I expected, and when he handed it to me, it slipped from my grasp to the ground. I could not bring myself to look inside, not there, with others watching. The man bowed and retreated, and I thought no more about him.
Duke Galeazzo was last to appear. He stared with distaste at my husbands corpse and said flatly, A pity. He was one of my most talented scribes. Poison, was it?
At those last words, I gasped. The red-eyed Cicco was with the duke and drew him away with a word, but I rose, and called after him to explain himself. What poison? Had the doctor said this? Why had no one mentioned this to me?
I tried to push through the crowd and find the black-haired man who had given me Matteos saddlebag. He had traveled with Matteo; surely he would know if my husband had been poisoned.
But the man was nowhere to be found, and Francesca and Bona pleaded with me to sit back down. His Grace was mistaken, they insisted. He was confusing Matteo with another man, another matter, but I did not believe them, and broke down sobbing.
After a time, there were priests and Roman legates, public prayers and psalms, but there was no burial. For the first time in anyones memory, the ground was coated with a layer of solid ice; we could not lay him in the earth until it thawed.
Matteos corpse was taken awaysomewhere outside, I suspected, sheltered from animals but not the freezing cold; they were wise not to tell me where. Bona led me to a nauseating display of food in the common dining chamber near the chapel. I could not bear the sight of it, so her ladies returned me to Bonas chamber, where I drank more of the wine laced with the bitter tang of poppies. For hours I stared into the glittering fire.
Matteo had been murdered. Romulus and the Wolf had killed him in order to silence him, and they would kill Lorenzo next. And I was stripped of reason and will and could do nothing to stop it. Whom should I tell? Whom should I trust?
When night fell, Francesca helped me undress and put on my nightgown. She offered me more bitter wine, but I refused and was taken to my little cot. When Bona arrived, she paused before climbing into her own bed to pray; I lay listening to her whispers and began to tremble with silent rage. I wanted to strike her, to tear the rosary from her fingers, to scream that she had taught me only lies: God was neither loving nor just, and I hated Him.
I held my tongue and waited, anguished, until Bona fell asleep, until Francesca snored. By the light of the hearth, I rose and found my shawl and slippers, then slipped out into the loggia.
I pattered downstairs, gasping at the freezing air when I hit the open hallway. I staggered in the blackness, twice almost slipping on the ice, and was shivering uncontrollably by the time I got to Matteos room. It was cold and dark and drafty; the fire had gone out and the flue was still open, but I did not bother to light it, as I did not care whether I caught cold or froze to death. I would have been pleased to die.
I am unsure why I went to my husbands chamber. I believe I meant to scream myself hoarse, though even with the windows shuttered, I would have been overheard. I only know that when I arrived and drew the bolt behind me, I spied Matteos quill upon the carpet.
It must have been tangled in the bedding and fallen when I removed the sheets to clean him. I dropped to my knees before it and grief rushed out of me in a torrent. The sobs wracked me so that I sank down upon the carpet, the quill clutched to my chest.
I wept a good half an hour. When I was done, my eyes, nose, and mouth were streaming, the poor feather crushed. Gasping for breath, I pushed myself up to sitting, and felt something small and metal brush against my breastbone, beneath my nightgown.
Matteos key.
Use it in case of emergency.
I drew my sleeve across my eyes and nose, and stared across the room at Matteos writing desk and the secret panel next to it, hidden in the dark wooden wainscoting. Weak and trembling after the paroxysm of tears, I crawled on my hands and knees to Matteos desk, and pulled myself up into his chair to light the lamp. The oil was low, and the flame feeble; I leaned down and had to run my fingertips over the wall to find the tiny black keyhole.
I slipped the leather thong over my hand, and put the little key into the lock.
The door to the compartment popped open with a faint click. Behind the wood panel, a large stone brick was missing from the wall; in the gap sat a thick stack of papers the size of a library manuscript. I drew them out carefully, set them upon my husbands desk, and pulled the lamp closer.