Free The Borgia Mistress: A Novel by Sara Poole

with surprise at what was happening. Then pandemonium broke out.
    I dove into the nearest doorway as people all around me did the same. Peddlers rushed to push their carts into alleys, while those unfortunate enough to be driving wagons whipped their animals frantically as they struggled to get out of the way. I saw a man fling himself into the road to scoop up a small girl as chickens beat their wings in panic and a white cat who reminded me of mine arched her back and hissed in fury.
    So, must I admit, did anger surge in me. That men should show such contempt for the peace of the town was infuriating. That Cesare should be among them passed all bearing. Had I the means, I would gladly have thrown him from the saddle to crack his thick head on the paving stones, consequences be damned.
    Turned away as I was to avoid flying dust and small bits of stone struck loose by the horses’ pounding hooves, I was certain that Cesare took no more notice of me than he did of anyone else in the road. He and the other riders went by in a blur of silver spurs, foam-flecked dogs, and panting handlers racing to keep up.
    When they were gone, I stood for a moment, listening to the fading sounds of their passing. My basket had tilted, and several of the artichokes had rolled out into the road. I bent to retrieve them, becoming aware as I did so of the muttering all around me.
    Straightening slowly, I dared a glance at those standing nearby. Uniformly, the face of every man and woman I could see was bright with anger. What good would the strongest walls be to Borgia if a disgruntled populace welcomed his enemies in their hearts?
    Such was my preoccupation with that thorny question that I must have grasped one of the artichokes too tightly. The sharp end of a fleshy leaf pierced the palm of my hand. I stared down at the bright drops of blood as dark apprehension rippled through me.
     

 
    6
     
    Venison, served still bloody as Borgia liked it, graced the Pope’s plate that evening. The sight of it made me queasy as well as reminded me that I was angry at Cesare. His feckless accommodation of the Spaniards still rankled. Herrera was seated next to him at dinner and seemed able to make him laugh at will.
    I did not linger in the hall as was my custom but instead threw a cloak over my shoulders and stepped outside. Wood smoke curled from the chimney pots that dotted the tiled rooftops of the town. To the west, the sun’s last rays filtered through mist and the promise of rain. Although it would be vespers soon, the square directly in front of the palazzo remained busy. Merchants of every stripe jostled with priests, peddlers, prostitutes, and the occasional penitent, all avid for a bit of papal business. The guards kept the crowd orderly enough, but as the hour aged and the prospect of a day’s trade dimmed, the press of bodies clamoring to be heard grew more urgent.
    Failing to find the peace I sought, I was about to go back inside the palazzo when a sudden splash of color on the edge of my vision stopped me. From one of the corsi leading into the square came a figure out of fantasy, dressed in a patchwork tunic and leggings and wearing on his head a pointed felt hat on which spangles glinted in the fading sun. He was banging a drum at the same time as he blew a horn and shook his head to make the spangles clang. He looked as much a jester as any to ply his trade from court to court, but there was also something oddly familiar about him.
    Advancing across the piazza in leaps and bounds, he came at last very near to where I stood. Seeing me, he paused and with a smile swept the hat from his head and executed a more than passable bow.
    Having secured my attention, he lingered only a moment before he straightened and gamboled off back toward the town. I took a breath, let it out slowly, and followed him.
    *   *   *
     
    David ben Eliezer and I found a quiet place to sit in the back of a taverna catering to a motley crew of jugglers,