The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

      The

       Scarlet Contessa

      A NOVEL OF THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE

      JEANNE KALOGRIDIS

       Dedication

      FOR HELEN,

      FOR SAVING MY LIFE

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Dedication

      The Tower

      Prologue

      PART I

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      PART II

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-one

      Chapter Twenty-two

      Chapter Twenty-three

      Chapter Twenty-four

      Chapter Twenty-five

      PART III

      Chapter Twenty-six

      Chapter Twenty-seven

      Chapter Twenty-eight

      Chapter Twenty-nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty-one

      Chapter Thirty-two

      Chapter Thirty-three

      Chapter Thirty-four

      Chapter Thirty-five

      Chapter Thirty-six

      Afterword

      Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       Also by Jeanne Kalogridis

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

      The Tower

      Ravaldino Fortress

      December 10, 1499

      Prologue

      The end of the world will arrive, say the mendicant preachers, on the first of January 1500; God can no longer bear the deeds of evil men and will strike them down. That most famous Cassandra, the monk Savonarola of Florence, says that God is especially outraged by the blatant sexual crimes of Pope Alexander VI, who brought his sixteen-year-old mistress and his illegitimate children to live with him in the Vatican.

      On that terrible day, the prophets say, the earth will shake until it crumbles to dust, and we sinners will fall howling to our knees. For the wicked there will be no mercy. Those of us who have been faithless will be cast forever into the lake of fire. The world will perish in a cataclysm, and a new kingdom will take its place.

      Christmas is a fortnight away, which means the coming wrath of God is barely three weeks away, according to the faithful. I wonder whether my lady Caterina and I will live long enough to see it.

      For now, however, it is midnight, and beyond Ravaldino’s fortress walls all is quiet. I lie upon the little cot in my lady’s roomy closet—used now for storing ammunition and gunpowder instead of Caterina’s headdresses and gowns, and thus stinking of war. I yearn for sleep, but it does not come easily these days.

      Especially not tonight, with the noise emanating from the bed out in my lady’s chamber. My arm has gone numb, and to wake it, I turn over on the narrow cot; it is lumpy and uncomfortable, and I am unused to sleeping on it. This leaves me facing the velvet curtain that covers the closet door.

      Unfortunately, it does not cover it well enough. The swath of velvet is slightly too narrow, and through the cracks between it and the stone, I glimpse Caterina sitting up in the middle of her large bed, illuminated by the lamp on the night table. She is entirely naked, and the light infuses her white skin with a warm glow, as if she has been dipped in honey; her torso is long and lean, her waist, after many children, narrow. Her back is to me as she straddles her supine lover, and as she rides him vigorously, the handsome muscles of her shoulders, back, and arms ripple, and her thick dark blond braid, terminating at the base of her spine, swings like a pendulum across her back.

      Her latest lover, Giovanni di Casale, lies passively beneath her, groaning with pleasure and exhaustion, his head thrown back against the pillow, his long, bony legs emerging from beneath my lady’s firm buttocks. He is forty—only four years older than the insatiable Caterina—but he seems twenty decades older. He is red-haired, balding, with flabby skin the unhealthy white of a fish’s belly; Caterina reaches out to brace herself against his chest for a moment, and his skin jiggles beneath her hands. He is my lady’s secretary, not a soldier.

      After a full day of leading military drills and testing the artillery, the Contessa Caterina Sforza, Lady of Forlì, is still full of lust and energy. She releases her hold on Giovanni’s freckled chest and circles her hips atop his in a slow, grinding motion, as if to crush him. Inspired, Giovanni releases a gasp of mounting ecstasy.

      The scene causes a faint, pleasurable stirring between my own legs, but anxiety steals my desire to seek release. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my back to the curtain, wishing I had the energy to stick my fingers into my ears.

      It is hard enough to sleep these days, even without such an interruption. A week ago, we left the comfort of Paradise, the name Caterina had given her magnificent apartments inside the fortress, with their breathtaking view of the nearby Apennine Mountains. A week before that, she secretly sent all her valuables—fine gowns, jewelry, furniture, carpets, as well as all her children, save one—to the safe haven of Florence. Now we are in the most secure tower in the fortress of Ravaldino, on the edge of the town Forlì, which Caterina rules. She is contessa, too, of Imola, a larger town half a day’s ride away, which is now under attack by the Pope’s army.

      If Imola falls, odds are we shall fall, too.

      There are few windows here in the main tower, no paintings or tapestries covering the drab walls, no carpets upon the rough stone floors, no furniture save for the bed, a single armoire, a night table, and a table for the washbasin, above which hangs the large, finely polished mirror Caterina insisted on bringing. The Lady of Forlì’s cries of pleasure grow louder and more urgent, joining with those of Giovanni, finally fully inspired by her efforts.

      Just as Giovanni lets go a howl of ecstatic release—and my lady laughs softly with delight