Free Mirror Mirror by Gregory Maguire Page B

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    â€œDon’t bother yourself,” huffed Primavera, but she could get off the bench only with difficulty, as her arthritis was worst in the morning. By the time she struggled to her feet, Lucrezia Borgia had whipped Bianca into her arms and was hurrying up the nave with her.
    â€œStop, I’ll manage her.” Primavera’s voice was like a bellows in a foundry, thunder trying to whisper.
    â€œSilence,” roared Cesare.
    â€œI’ll read from the Gospel of the Evangelist Saint Mark,” said Fra Ludovico. “Everyone listen.” But no one did. Bodyguards, nursemaid, Borgias, and the master of the house had all left the chapel mostly in fits of weeping and shouting. Fra Ludovico paused to try to collect some semblance of religious calm. But he found himself shouting out the open doors at them all:
    â€œIf this work be of men, it will come to naught.”
    The dispersals were brief. Up on his stallion leaped the Duc de Valentinois, Cesare Borgia, devotions behind him and the rapture of conquest ahead. Let Lucrezia to her marriage and her affairs, let Vicente to his mission, to achieve the mightiest token of God left in the world or to fail. It was in their hands now. For Cesare, back to his friend Niccolò Machiavelli, back to the summoning of armies and the conquest of states, back to the pleasures of Rome rotting in the summer sun. In the balance of his thighs against the horse, in the heft of his strong backside in the saddle, his eyes sweeping over the hills in the vaporish dawn, he felt himself imperious, invincible. Despite the cold, his cock poked inside his garments. Morning Mass always did this to him, and it was a good way to start a day of bloody bullying.
    He left without good-byes to his sister or his host, his thoughts on the road ahead.
    â€œHe has provided you a purse for your needs,” said Lucrezia to Vicente.
    â€œHe said a guard, a translator. The protection of my household,” said Vicente. “That was his promise. You heard it.”
    â€œWould your daughter not be safer in a convent?” said Lucrezia.
    â€œA child should have a parent and a home,” said Vicente.
    â€œI had a pope and a palace,” Lucrezia countered. “I had no mother to speak of; the sisters of some tired order or other could do good work to care for your child.”
    â€œCesare may break his promises,” said Vicente coldly, “but I will hold you to yours, Lucrezia Borgia. You are no goose. You know I mean it.”
    He had her. She said, “I will keep my word, then. I will see that your household is maintained and your child protected.”
    â€œYou take a good deal on yourself for your brother,” said Vicente, trying to disguise his contempt.
    Lucrezia drew herself up, unsure whether this was a compliment or not. “Don’t double back in a week and hope to escape Cesare’s notice. He’d only hack your daughter to pieces and send you on your way again.”
    â€œI’m on a fool’s errand,” said Vicente, “which will cost me my life.”
    â€œLook,” said Lucrezia. She unlatched her gradual and beckoned Bianca forward to see. The illuminated pages fell open and the sudden sun made of the vellum a blinding platter. But even in all that shining, as if the very words of God were singing in light, there was a sequence of brighter shapes, like three drops of fire.
    Vicente had to shade his eyes to see. He could barely tolerate the glare. They were ovate in shape, like the slits of skin that pucker about our eyes, and they seemed to blink like eyes too.
    â€œThey are three silver leaves from the branch of the Tree of Knowledge,” said Lucrezia. “They were sent to Prince Dschem as proof that his campaign had worked, at least at first. They will have to serve as whatever proof you need, Vicente de Nevada.”
    â€œYou don’t believe there is a Tree of Knowledge,” said Vicente,