The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

to suffer horribly? God is merciful, Bona said, and just, but there was no mercy, no justice in Matteo’s dying, only the most savage cruelty.

      Plague, someone whispered, and crossed himself, but it was not plague. Bona’s 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. Matteo’s 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 rest—a ridiculous suggestion, I thought, for I had no idea then that it was nearly dawn—and 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, Matteo’s 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 Lorenzo’s 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 melt—my blood, my bones, my flesh—and only the blinding pain in my throat and chest would remain.

      “I won’t 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 thus—stiff and trembling—and 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 God’s 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 darling’s 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 Bona’s draught had left me sufficiently compliant, Francesca and the chambermaids took me away to the duchess’s 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 Matteo’s room, awaiting the outcome, until I had thrown him out.

      “This was your husband’s, 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 Matteo’s age and would have been pretty enough to capture the duke’s attention—Galeazzo occasionally indulged in affairs with his male staff—had 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 husband’s 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