I was not reassured after my encounter with the Cardinal of Valencia—if anything, I was less so. Certainly the situation must be more dire than we’d known, if it was no longer safe for the pope to remain in the Vatican Palace. When I was not worrying, I was struggling to push Cesare Borgia from my mind—his smile, his kind words, the way his tongue seemed to caress my name. Each fond remembrance was a sin, and even the thought of speaking such sins aloud to my confessor made my cheeks burn in shame.
And so I would turn my thoughts to Federico. It was my fault we were both still in the city and that he was in the way of such danger.
The more I ruminated and stewed in my regrets and my culpability, the more I felt I could not stay safely shielded behind these walls, not when Federico—my friend and, yes, the man I might love—was in danger beyond them.
I had to find him. I had to at least try. Surely there was still someone at the Vatican Palace I could ask. Perhaps he had already fled to the country, and then at least I could rest easy that he was safe.
Or perhaps I would find him, and at last bring him back to the safety of the Castel Sant’ Angelo. Surely he would acquiesce, now that he had witnessed what the French were doing to the city.
I slipped from my bed early the next morning, as usual. Isabella, who shared the small room with me, would not think anything of it. Hopefully I could be back before too long.
Hopefully I would come back at all, and not run afoul of some French soldier.
I shuddered as I donned my heaviest cloak against the winter chill, pulling up the hood to conceal my face. Hopefully there would be few of them up at so early an hour; hopefully they were all sleeping off a night of drink and dissolution and so would take no notice of one servant girl slipping through the streets.
Mother Mary, Christ Jesus, blessed and righteous St. Michael, watch over me.
I had discovered, after much idle poking about the fortress these past few weeks, where the secret walkway that led to the Vatican Palace was. I slipped through unnoticed.
It was open to the air, which I had not expected; though the high stone walls hid anyone passing from the view of whoever might be on the street below. My heart beat rapidly beneath my breastbone at the audacity of what I was doing. I hoped fervently that I would not encounter anyone on my way.
Soon I found myself in the Vatican Palace. I huddled in a corner, struggling to steady my breath and get my bearings. Once I had recognized where I was in the palace, I headed for a side servants’ entrance that would lead me to the vicinity of the stables. If Federico was well and had not fled, this would be where I found him.
I slipped into the stables and found myself with a sword immediately at my throat. “Who goes there? State your business or I cut your throat,” a man barked. He had the Catalan accent I recognized among those members of His Holiness’s personal guard.
I let out a squeak of panic. Hands trembling with fright, I lifted my hands and pulled down the hood of my cloak. “I … my name is Maddalena Moretti,” I said, my voice shaky, much as I would have liked to sound strong. “I am a maid, in the service of—”
He sighed with both relief and annoyance and lowered his blade. “A servant girl,” he said, disdainfully. “What in Christ’s name are you doing here?”
“I … I am looking for someone,” I said. “My betrothed. His name is Federico Lucci. He is a footman in the service of His Holiness, but is often in the stables. Have you seen him?”
“I know the fellow, but I have not seen him, no,” the man said brusquely. “You had best get the hell out of here and somewhere safe. No doubt your man will come find you if he can, a tasty thing like you.”
My skin crawled at these words, and I hurried out of the stables. Yet such a comment was the least of what I had to fear on the streets of Rome.
I hastened to the Vatican servants’ quarters next and found them deserted. No doubt everyone who had not fled was in hiding. I thought hard about where else Federico might be if in fact he had not gone home or remained with the horses in the countryside.
He could be dead. I gasped aloud as the thought slithered its way through the shields I had erected in my mind to keep it out.
No, I did not know that. I didn’t have any reason to believe it, to believe that he wasn’t perfectly safe somewhere.
Then I recalled his friend’s wine shop, where he and I had passed so much time. Perhaps he had sought shelter there. If nothing else, I might find someone who had seen or spoken to him.
I set out from the Vatican before I could think better of it. The walk to the wine shop was not a long one, and I tried to stay in the shadows cast by the newly risen sun and out of view of enemy soldiers.
The streets were as empty as I’d ever seen them, and I could not help a shudder at how eerie it was. I pulled my cloak closer, as if hoping it would make me invisible; I was all too conscious of how very conspicuous I was, out on the streets all alone.
In the distance, I heard shouts and breaking glass, and whooping and hollering, as if a fight had broken out. I quickened my pace, crossing myself under my hood, begging God and His saints to see me through this.
Finally the shop came into sight. It was dark and silent, apparently abandoned. As I drew nearer, I saw the windows had been smashed and the furniture splintered within. Broken glass carpeted the floor, as did spilled wine and what might have been—what I hoped wasn’t—blood.
I remained stock still, peering in horror at the evidence of violence inside. Dread began to coat the inside of my stomach, heavy as lead. There had been a struggle here. I crossed myself again, murmuring a prayer for the shop owner, Federico’s friend whose name I could not manage to recall.
It was not certain that Federico had even been here, been a victim of this horror. He might yet be safe in the country, or somewhere else in the city, somewhere I would not know to check. I must have faith.
I could look around the shop, I reasoned. Perhaps there was something that might help me. I was reluctant to go inside for some reason I could not explain, but having come this far, it would be foolish to turn back now. Lifting my skirts, I stepped onto the threshold and past the broken door.
Suddenly I heard a burst of laughter and shouting from nearby. I turned to find two men walking along the street—French soldiers, judging by their dress and the language they spoke rapidly to one another. I could not be sure, being unfamiliar with the French tongue, but it sounded as though they were slurring their words, still drunk from the night before.
I moved to dart into the shop to hide, but they caught sight of me, and quickly hastened toward me. One caught my arm and whirled me around to face him. He asked me a question in his language, his companion laughing by his side.
“I … I do not understand.” I struggled against his hard grip. “Let me go, please!”
The men continued speaking to each other, and the one holding me ran a finger along my cheek. “Please, let me go!” I cried. I doubted they could understand my words, but surely the sentiment was clear enough as I struggled against them. They simply had no intention of obliging me.
Rage began to fill me as their fingers poked and prodded, as though I were a piece of horseflesh at market. First Juan Borgia, and now this? Were men animals, all?
The Cardinal of Valencia was not coming to save me this time, but I had been doing a fine job of fighting off his despicable brother even before he arrived that day. And I could do that now.
“Let me go!” I shouted. I drove my knee between the man’s legs, and he let me go with a scream of pain. I did not hesitate; I bolted away from them and back down the street from which I had come, toward the Vatican.
I heard shouts and looked back to see the man’s companion pursuing me. He wove unsteadily across the cobblestones, drunk indeed, and as I was about to look away, he tripped and fell to the street. He let out a yell of pain, and I ran on. When I glanced back again he was nowhere in sight.
A hysterical burst of laughter escaped me. Those men deserved whatever pain they got, and then some. Perhaps they would no longer prey upon young women in the streets. I could only hope.
I veered down a street that would extend my journey slightly but would likely throw them off should they start to pursue me again. Yet no one followed.
In sight of St. Peter’s Square, I had finally allowed relief to flood my blood when I heard hoofbeats coming up behind me. I turned to see a mounted rider pursuing me. “Stop!” he cried.
I screamed and ran faster, futile though I knew it was, and my legs felt like to give out. I could never outrun a man on horseback.
“Maddalena! Please!”
I stopped dead at the sound of my name and turned to face the mounted man. By then, he was almost upon me, and before I knew what was happening he had slowed his horse, seized me by the waist, and pulled me up into the saddle in front of him.
I screamed again, in panic and outrage. “Let me down! Who—” I broke off as I finally got a look at the man’s face. “You … Your Eminence!”
“Yes,” Cesare Borgia said, spurring his horse on. “What are you doing out on the streets, Maddalena? Surely you know it’s not safe—why, I saw you running as though you were being chased, and—”
“I was being chased, by two French soldiers who accosted me,” I said. “I fought them off and ran, and then you came riding up behind me, and…” Suddenly all the fight went out of me, and I sagged against his lean body. Only then did I notice how good he felt against me, and just like that, all the thoughts I’d been trying to suppress—as well as, God forgive me, that sinful dream of over a year ago—came roaring back. I drew a sharp breath and quickly recited the Pater Noster in my head. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil …
He chuckled. “Fought them off, did you? Well done. But what in God’s name possessed you to leave the Castel Sant’ Angelo in the first place?”
“I was looking for someone,” I explained. “A … a friend.” If I wondered why I did not use the word betrothed with Cardinal Borgia, I did not stop to examine it too closely. “I have not heard from him and do not know if he is safe, and I was worried. I … decided to try to find him.”
By this time we were back at the Vatican, and Cardinal Borgia directed his horse into the stables. He swung down from the saddle and lifted me down after him. “That was brave of you,” he said. “Brave, but foolish. And did you find this friend?”
“No. No, I did not.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” He led the horse into the stable before drawing me toward the palace. “Come. We must both get back into the Castel. Luckily for you, I decided to ride out to try to find my mother.” He gave me that smile I had remembered so many times—too many times. “It seems I have saved you again.”
Before I realized what I was doing, I reached out and slapped him across the face.
I could not tell who was more shocked, him or me. No doubt I had not truly hurt him—I was a slight women, with no experience in violence, and he was a man and no doubt trained to protect himself. But the astonishment in his gaze was comical all the same.
I bit back the apology that leapt to my tongue, the horror at my actions that years in service to those above my station had ingrained in me. Instead I said, “I do not need you to save me, Your Eminence. I managed quite well before you found me. If you need to be a savior to someone, save the people of Rome.”
I expected his ire, even anger, in return; but as he had before when I had spoken boldly to him, he surprised me. He took my hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “I shall do as you bid me, Maddalena, avenging angel, Madonna of Holy Vengeance,” he said, without so much as a trace of mockery. “I shall do the best I can.”
It was my turn to look shocked, to be rendered speechless.
“And I shall start with your friend,” he said. “What is his name?”
I shook my head, as if to clear it. “Federico Lucci,” I said. “A footman in the employ of His Holiness.”
A sardonic smile curled his lips. “Is this man your lover, then?”
“No!” I gasped in shock. “I am not … I would never…”
“I did not mean to offend you,” he said, in earnest. “But it seems plain that this man is dear to you.”
“He is,” I said. “He is … we are betrothed.”
He frowned slightly before his expression cleared, becoming neutral once more. “I see. Well, you have my word on this, Maddalena Moretti. I shall have my men find out where he is, and what has become of him, and I shall tell you. I swear it.”
Relief and warmth spread through me in equal measure. “I … I do not know how to thank you, Your Eminence.”
He took my hand and kissed it again, his lips warm against my skin. “It is as I told you before, Maddalena. A man will do a great deal to see that smile of yours. The smile of an angel of holy vengeance.”
I struggled to compose myself as he led me back into the Vatican Palace and to the secret tunnel.
An angel of holy vengeance, indeed. Perhaps my dream of him as such an angel had not been so far from the truth, after all.