The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

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 the swiftness of a viper, he struck. I did not see him draw the dagger, but I saw it come away bloodied, and heard the duke’s horrified gasp. Beside him, the Mantuan ambassador made a feeble attempt to push the attacker away, but Lampugnani was on fire. He rose to his full impressive height, seized the duke’s arm so that he could not run away, and thrust the dagger to the hilt into Galeazzo’s chest. It came free with a sucking sound, and Lampugnani, his lips twisting with distaste and determination, plunged it into the duke again.

      “I am dead!” Galeazzo exclaimed in surprise, and fell straight back against the chest of Orfeo da Ricavo, who tried vainly to support him.

      Visconti was on the duke then, too, slashing with his long sword, and was joined by a younger third man. The Mantuan ambassador, Saggi, and Ricavo both began screaming for the guards.

      The choir fell silent, its sweet strains replaced by a swell of frantic voices, the sounds of struggle. Bodies surged from the once-orderly rows; the church doors were flung open, and the crowd swelled toward them like a rising tide. The bodyguards were caught in the rush and fought their way back to their master, who had fallen upon the Point of the Innocents.

      By then, even Saggi and Ricavo were struggling to flee; the duke’s brothers Ottaviano and Filippo almost knocked me down as they pushed toward the door. I held fast to Caterina and pulled her away from the horror; she was limp and unresisting in my grasp.

      The church emptied with astonishing speed. Outside in the plaza, courtiers and the duke’s favorite chamber attendants called for their horses; those who had come on foot, including Caterina’s mother, Lucrezia, were half running over treacherous ice back toward the castle. I paused in the doorway, the stunned Caterina still in my arms, and looked back into the sanctuary.

      It was deserted save for the guards and the bloodied corpse of Giovanni Lampugnani, whose lameness no doubt hindered his escape. I watched as the tall, turbaned Moor, one hand pressed to his shoulder to staunch the weeping wound there, knelt over the motionless form of the Duke of Milan. Galeazzo lay sprawled on his back, mouth agape, sightless eyes open, arms flung upward as if in defense. Blood spattered his clean-shaven face and soaked his doublet, now scarlet with no trace of white.

      The tower of the duchy had crumbled.

      Bona would have said that God had finally delivered His judgment, but that day, I knew she was wrong. God had had nothing to do with it; it had been the work of the King of Swords, who had avenged his sister. I looked upon the duke’s pale corpse and felt exhilarating, if cold, satisfaction.

      Justice: it was what I wanted for Matteo, and I would not rest until I found it.

      Chapter Seven

      Caterina and I returned to Porta Giovia to discover that, although the courtiers on horseback had arrived well ahead of us, none of them had had the courage to speak to Bona, who was still abed. Caterina, who was crying unrestrainedly, not so much from grief, I think, as terror, clung to me as I entered the duchess’s chamber. I wound an arm about her shoulder as though I were her mother, who had so feared retribution from the duke’s enemies that she had deserted her daughter and fled to her husband’s house in the city. Together, Caterina and I went to Bona’s bedside, where Francesca was just taking away a tray.

      The curtains were open, and the lady duchess was sitting propped upon her pillows and wrapped in a heavy shawl, her disheveled dark blond hair plaited into a single thick braid. Her broad, ponderous face was drawn, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion, but she straightened at the sound of our footsteps and tried to arrange her features into a more pleasant expression. But at the sight of Caterina, who was pressing her tear-streaked face into my shoulder, Bona paled and grew very, very still.

      My voice emerged, cracking and unsteady. “His Grace, the Duke of Milan is dead,” I said. I expected her to shriek, to weep, to be inconsolable.

      Bona’s eyes widened, but the rest of her features did not move. A long silence passed between us, punctuated by Caterina’s muffled sobs.

      At last Bona’s lips parted and formed a single word. “How?”

      “At the swords of assassins,” I answered. “Giovanni Lampugnani and Carlo Visconti. His Grace still lies on the Point of the Innocents.”

      “Visconti,” she repeated tonelessly. “Is everyone else safe?”

      I nodded. “I think so.”

      “Good.” She looked at Caterina and sighed. “Poor child.”

      Francesca had set down the tray and was crying, but Bona threw back the covers and swung her thick legs over the side of the bed.

      “Francesca,” she said, a bit sharply. The chambermaid stopped her tears and looked up, anguished.

      “Call Leonora, and help me get dressed,” she said, and glanced up at me. “And Dea, go and tell Cicco the news if he hasn’t already heard, then bring him to me.”

      After speaking with her husband’s top aide, Bona ordered that Galeazzo’s body be washed at Santo Stefano and dressed in a suit of gold brocade. By dusk, the duke’s clean corpse was resting on a table in Santo Stefano’s sacristy. There was no public viewing—or private, for that matter—as the duke had suffered fourteen disfiguring wounds. His mortal remains lay in the sacristy another full day, the twenty-seventh, the day His Grace was to have visited the church of San Giovanni to celebrate the feast of Saint John the Evangelist. All the while, Bona and Cicco worked together to prevent any chance of an uprising against the Sforza dynasty; soldiers were stationed at strategic points along Milan’s empty streets.

      Late that night, Bona sent a