The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

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СКАЧАТЬ too, were swallowed by the wind. We shouted a perfunctory greeting, and watched as he climbed atop his black charger, caparisoned in white and crimson, the Sforza colors. Immediately, his inner circle and the guards mounted their steeds and closed ranks around him; we lesser beings were confined outside the protected inner circle.

      Like the others, I drew the cowl close to my face and made my way over the slippery drawbridge and out into the street, across which stood the city cathedral, its unfinished walls covered with latticework scaffolding; the Alps loomed in the distance behind us. We kept pace with the horses for half an hour over icy cobblestones; on two occasions, Caterina slipped and her mother and I caught her before she fell to her knees. The wind drove my veil into my eyes, and would have blown it and my cowl off had I not clutched the edges of the latter. No one engaged in festive, lighthearted chatter; the howling wind drowned all other sounds, and forced us to walk with faces downcast against the stinging cold. Tradition demanded that the streets be filled with throngs cheering the duke, but on this feast day after Christmas only a few hardy souls huddled on the treacherous, snow-dusted ice and called out feebly when the duke and his entourage passed.

      I was shivering uncontrollably by the time we arrived at the little plaza in front of the church of Santo Stefano, an ancient, unimpressive two-story edifice with a crumbling stone façade. The plaza was filled with merchants, peasants, and the starving poor; the church was so crowded inside that they had waited here in hopes of catching a glimpse of His Grace. The guards, their armor glinting with light reflected from the snow, dismounted and began to clear the plaza while several young grooms ran forward to take the horses.

      Galeazzo dismounted and handed over his reins without looking at his groom; he squinted nervously at the plaza and, beyond it, at the door to the church. Like his daughter, he enjoyed public attention, but he also took enormous care to protect his person, and did not relax until the way was clear and the guards signaled him. The bishop, who was to celebrate the mass, moved ahead of him, and the ambassadors took their places at his left; his brothers moved to his right, so that the men stood five abreast, with the duke in the protected center. Behind them, in the favored retinue, walked Cicco’s younger brother, the secretary Giovanni Simonetta, and a military adviser, Orfeo da Ricavo, followed by a row of camerieri, the nobles who attended the duke in his chamber and were considered his closest friends. The big Moor—a full head taller than any other man present, his hand on the hilt of his scimitar—led them into the church, while a pair of armored bodyguards flanked each row of the ducal procession.

      Caterina pushed her way forward until we stood just behind the camerieri. When we finally made our way through the open door, she let go a sigh of relief at the rush of warmth emanating from the bodies of some three hundred faithful. At the front of the church, near the altar, scores of empty chairs awaited the duke and his party; most of the worshippers were obliged to stand and crane their necks as the duke passed by.

      At the instant Galeazzo set foot inside, the choir, situated at the back of the sanctuary, burst into song, and a valet ran forward to relieve the duke and his companions of their cloaks. As the duke handed off his cloak, I saw he was dressed in a handsome doublet, the left half of which was gleaming watered white silk embroidered with tiny gold fleur-de-lis, the right of lush crimson velvet. His leggings were also of velvet—crimson for the left leg, white for the right.

      I was not surprised to see that he sported his family’s heraldic colors, but I was startled indeed to see that he wore no armor. It was the first time I ever saw Duke Galeazzo appear in public without a breastplate. Perhaps he shied from wearing metal so close to his skin in such cold weather, or perhaps it was an issue of vanity and the breastplate did not suit his fine new doublet; I will never know.

      Beside me, Caterina let go a little gasp of pride, tinged with impatience, at her father’s appearance. As we women handed off our cloaks, I saw why she was so eager for the duke to take note of her: her gown was made from the very same fabrics, with the same gold embroidery upon the white watered silk—a clever Christmas surprise for her father.

      As the duke and his company followed the bishop down the center aisle, the rows of worshippers bowed, rippling like wheat in the wind. I kept an eye on Caterina; though she bore herself proudly, her gaze was riveted on her father and those surrounding him. She was seeking an opportunity, I knew, to get the duke’s attention.

      Midway to the altar, her opportunity came. Santo Stefano was very old, though not so old, it was claimed, as one great old stone abutting the sanctuary floor. Planted in the very center of the church, this large stone was unpolished and unremarkable, but it was nothing less than the Point of the Innocents, where, it was said, the blood of the innocent infants slain by King Herod had been spilled.

      Galeazzo paused in mid-conversation and step to glance down at the stone and contemplate it in a show of false piety.

      Seeing her opportunity, Caterina pushed forward, surging past the last row of the duke’s chamber attendants and moving directly behind Cicco’s brother Giovanni and the military adviser Ricavo. She was just one row from her father, and when her mother and I simultaneously hissed at her for such outrageous behavior, she glanced over her shoulder at us with a sly grin.

      Her mother nudged me and gestured with her chin at her unruly daughter. I was of less importance than anyone else in the procession, so the task fell to me to retrieve her. I whispered apologies as I sidled between pairs of indignant camerieri and finally got directly behind Caterina.

      As I touched her elbow, a cry went up—Make room!—and a middle-aged courtier stepped into the aisle just after the bishop passed. He was large and barrel-chested, with powerful shoulders, but one of his legs was withered; he moved haltingly, with a limp, and went down unsteadily on one knee right at the Point of the Innocents, blocking Duke Galeazzo’s path.

      His waving pale brown hair, brushed straight back and falling to his shoulders, was thinning at temples and crown; his anxious smile revealed overlarge yellow teeth. The soldiers nearby stiffened, and the big Moor stopped at once and drew his scimitar, but all relaxed upon recognizing Giovanni Lampugnani, a noble with a large estate just outside the city, and therefore bound to swear his fealty to the duke that very afternoon at Porta Giovia. I thought at first he wore the Sforza colors, white and crimson, but the red was far too bright. Lampugnani had long been a friend to Galeazzo, although rumor said the duke had lately taken notice of his comely young wife and vowed to bed her.

      “A word, Your Grace,” he said. His grinning lips trembled. It was not uncommon for a petitioner to stop the duke as he made his way to his seat near the altar, but Galeazzo’s curled lip indicated it was unappreciated.

      At the same time, Caterina reacted to my touch by surging forward to stand beside the military adviser, who walked immediately behind the duke. Ricavo, gray-haired but solid, glanced down at her with amused surprise.

      Caterina reached out to tap her father’s shoulder, and that was when another, younger man stepped out into the aisle to stand beside Lampugnani. His hair and beard were very dark, his long face handsome, his eyes hate-filled and haunted; he was Carlo Visconti, the man whose sister had been raped by Galeazzo. His hand was clutching the hilt of his long, sheathed blade. Like Lampugnani, he wore white and vibrant red.

      He was the King of Swords.

      I felt myself fall into another world, one where the wrath of God was gathering and roiling, a monstrous cloud about to birth a shattering bolt. With both arms, I pulled Caterina away from her father and held her fast.

      “Not now, not now,” Duke Galeazzo hissed at Lampugnani and waved him away just as dark-haired Visconti slipped beside the kneeling man.

      Lampugnani began to rise awkwardly and fumbled with his sleeve. Still half crouched, he said distinctly, “Oh, yes, now. Now.”

      With СКАЧАТЬ