Muse (29 page)

By the moon, the astrologer meant me, as his sweeping palm made plain. Surely he did not expect me to speak? Apprehensive, I focussed on the few women in the audience, country nuns in Benedictine habits, the only pious sight in the packed chamber.

Now the Fisherman’s ring swung in my direction and the Pope addressed me. “Vicomtesse de Turenne, all of Avignon knows of your wisdom at prophecy. Will you not say what this eclipse prefigured?”

I took my place beside the astrologer, rustling loudly in my heavy silk robe. I was Clement’s prodigy and must perform in public for him. Bedecked in the finest goods the eastern trade routes offered, I was being asked to prove that I had earned them other than in his bedchamber.

“Holy Father …” I felt my way cautiously. “The eclipse signalled that the Pope has wisely betrothed himself to this city. The moon triumphed over the dark forces that besieged her, prefiguring that Avignon’s strengthened battlements will repel the Pope’s enemies.”

The French stamped their boots, which stirred up the Italians. Cardinal Ceccano raised his fist and jerked it hard against his other palm, a vulgar tribute suggesting where my true skill lay. Hot with shame, I stood my ground. Francesco was looking at me in a way I did not like. Indeed, every man in the room seemed to be contemplating doing something with me in private.

“Your Holiness,” Francesco said. “This
niece
, this Countess of Turenne, this rectrix of the papal Comtat”—he sharpened his tongue on my titles—“witnessed the Spirit descend at your coronation. She predicted that a three-headed pope would ascend Saint Peter’s throne, signifying that your adulterous reign will end in division unless you return to Rome, your lawful bride.” He was in full stride now, his arms as lively as his voice. “Unless the excesses of your court are checked, it will grow the seven heads and seven crowns predicted in the Book of Revelations.” He jabbed a finger towards me.
“I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet-coloured beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls. And upon her forehead was a name written, Babylon the great.”

Only one man in Avignon could have quoted this verbatim and only the most obtuse in the crowd missed the point of his barb. Why did Francesco feel such animus towards me? Although the response was wild, Francesco was not finished. I had not recovered from his attack when he launched a new spear at me.

“Your Holiness, only the ignorant believe this woman saved the city by summoning the moon back after the eclipse. And as for saving it from flooding? A hundred men with buckets could do so faster. Place no more store in prophetic harlots and turn your face from this Babylon towards imperial Rome.”

I fought to regain my composure as Ceccano elbowed Colonna and the Italians jostled Francesco in appreciation. Even the French cardinals were ignoring the Pope’s ferula, which he was banging against the floor, enraged that a superior orator had trampled his case on home ground. Reluctantly, the audience obeyed the call to order. Clement glared at his astrologer as if it were his responsibility to prevent all natural disasters. When the astrologer, who was perspiring, could not rally, the camerlengo tapped his heart and began crossing himself. Would Clement be drawn into the debate? He was known for his skill at oratory, but speaking impromptu was not his forte. Clement consulted his officers—Hugues Roger, the camerlengo, and the captain of the palace—then flipped his glove to signal that I should retaliate.

I was still recoiling from Francesco’s assault when the Fisherman’s ring signalled me. That brilliant flash revived me. I turned my humiliation to anger and my anger to the Pope’s cause, gathering the shreds of our case. “The cardinals may be glorious planets, but they are controlled by the Pope, the sun. The sun rules the solar system as the head rules the body and as the lion rules the lesser animals.” I knew, as soon as the
argument was out of my mouth, that it was blunt. It was like raising a sail on an unstable craft in a mistral. The wind and the river showed no mercy.

“The Pope might well be the sun,” Francesco agreed, enjoying himself, “but the papacy revolves around Rome, just as the sun revolves around the earth and as a lion quakes at the bite of a dog.”

The Pope’s case capsized and the Italians threw their hats into the air in triumph. The Florentine bankers surged around Francesco, slurping praises on him, and the Tuscan youths slapped him on the back. His forehead ashen, Clement stared at the bare walls of the audience chamber as if Pope Benedict’s severe décor was to blame for the liberties taken by the foreign courtiers in it.

Hugues Roger’s gaze scoured me, landed upon my Turenne crest, and glanced off scornfully. If I did not wish to be stripped of my Turenne lands, I must play the vicomtesse. There was no strength in hiding behind the Pope’s skirts. If I was discredited as the Pope’s prophet today, I would be fed ground emeralds tomorrow. But how to get the crowd’s attention? I looked for the bucket in which eels were soaking in vernaccia to soothe the lion when he tired of ceremony. The stable-boy had fished one out and fed it to him after the wolfhound’s attack. Now I held up a dripping eel until the lion roared, then threw it into his mouth. Once a few heads jerked my way, I fed the beast another. After a third I had every eye upon me and began.

“The Italian dog cannot intimidate the king of beasts, the Pope! Francesco di Petrarca de Florentia speaks of cardinals by using symbols, as poets ought, but consider—for you are men of reason not mere poets—how cardinals actually behave. The feuding of the Colonnas, the Orsinis, and other nobles has made a blood-bath of the Italian states. The Pope’s life would be worth sweet salt amongst those barbarous tribes—at most, a peppercorn. Let him remain safely cradled in the arms of Avignon!” I extended my arms, in their bright Turenne sleeves, to emphasize my point, then shouted over their cheers, “Ubi papa ibi Roma.”
Where the Pope is, there is Rome
.

My appeal to reason had transformed the listeners into savages.
La Popessa!
they screamed, pounding one another’s shoulders. Citizens and foreign courtiers had enjoyed the debate equally, although it had ended in a draw. No longer caring a whit about the eclipse’s meaning, they were hungry for the Pope’s famed hospitality and lavish board. With three blows of his ferula, Clement closed the debate and stepped from the dais to lead his parade of guests towards the Grand Tinel.

Thirty-six

F
RANCESCO SWEPT
towards me in his great robe, part of the group of Tuscan youths on their way to the banquet. One of the petrarchinos snatched the laurel crown from Francesco to perch it jauntily on his own head. Soon the youths were laughing and tossing the crown from hand to hand to try it on themselves.

“Francesco di Petrarca,” I hailed him. “Although you think little of Pope Clement, you might find his library worthy of your praise. Would you care to visit it?”

He halted, scanning my face for anger, which I suppressed with difficulty. I wanted news of my son and this was the surest way to get it. He could not resist such an invitation, as I knew. I took him to the library, gave him an hour alone with the books, and found him sinking into a rare work by Cicero when I rose from my carrel.

He let the pages drift reverently closed. “So this is where the vellum is being hoarded. These books are not here for the cardinals or their sons, who have inherited little taste for literature.”

“The volumes on this wall are for the Pope’s own use. This is one I commissioned.” I fanned the leaves of an illuminated manuscript.

A gesture dismissed it. “A bedchamber book.”

“Yes,” I said, meeting his eyes, “such as you and I once read to each other.”

This nettled him. “Is the Pope amorous after granting benefices and indulgences all day?” Louder now, insistent, “How does the Pope perform in bed?”

I did not shift my eyes away. “Like a Benedictine.”

Taken aback, he stared. “That was unforgiveable of me. I wish the words unsaid.” He looked contritely around the shelves and carrels. “I see your hand in this great enterprise, Solange. I have heard that you have attracted scribes from Paris and Flanders to work in the scriptorium. You have achieved your desire of commanding a remarkable library.”

I handed him a slim volume of his own poems, penned in my finest script with decorated initials. His years of shifting words here and there had fashioned an exquisite harmony in the patterning of vowels. “Forty poems by Francesco Petrarch that will stand the test of time,” I said. I wondered whether he was still breathing.

At last, he lifted his eyes from the volume. “You have chosen better than I would myself. I have written few poems of this worth of late. Will you lend me the book?”

This is what I hoped he would say. “I will, if you lend me my son.”

He extracted a square of parchment from his velvet gown. It was a portrait of a boy, aged about five, with Francesco’s eyes and hair. I could scarcely see him through my tears.

“I meant in the flesh,” I said. When Giovanni came to court, he would run happily into my arms as I saw him do each night before I fell asleep. But what would the child see? Would he recognize his own mother?

“That cannot happen.”

“I have waited patiently these three years.”

“Hardly patiently. You have used Guido to heckle me for news.”

“Is Giovanni in Carpentras with your old tutor?”

“So you have been searching for him there? The boy has a better hiding place. Your servant Des-neiges is with him still and he learns apace with his own tutor.”

I had indeed been looking. Guido had sent men across the Sorgue basin. They had followed Francesco to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse and back on his new horse. Either he was too clever for us or he saw little of the boy.

“Your rôle in his life is over,” he said. “I do not wish my son corrupted by the court.”

“By the Whore of Babylon, you mean. You must be fatigued with hauling such dung for your Roman masters. But you didn’t speak only for Colonna today. You spoke for yourself.”

“It’s true. I meant to warn you.”

“In the most public way.”

“Do you deny your position in the palace? You are an odalisque, une horizontale. Look at your sleeve. You wear the Pope’s brand.”

“This is the coat of arms for my lands at Turenne.”

His mouth was grim. “Which you will never be allowed to see. Be warned. The Pope’s men will drag you down as swiftly as they raised you up, for you have been privy to their secrets.”

“And you have grown envious and petty. You visit court to beg favours like the others, repaying the Pope’s generosity with insolence.”

“You refer to his gift of Pisa. Well, Pisa came to naught.”

“Then he will give you another benefice at my behest—unless it would rankle for you to be in my debt?”

“Why do you persist in thinking ill of me? I admit I went too far in the debate. Forgive me, I did not wish to hurt you quite so deeply.”

“But you
do
wish to hurt me? You admit as much?”

“You are the Pope’s consort. More than anyone, I wish that you were not. You are the most desired woman in Avignon, but you neglect your own heart.”

“What does that mean—that you would have me back? Lead me to Giovanni and I’ll give up all of this.” My hand swept across a thousand of the finest books in Christendom, but he shook his head. “Then let Giovanni live with me in the palace. He will learn from the scholars, read books that you will never read yourself. Clement will treat him kindly.”

“Like his Barbary lion? He would be on display as you were in the audience chamber—the love-child of the Countess of Turenne.” He became grave. “Even now our son’s life may be in danger. For Giovanni’s good, I will ask the Pope to legitimize him. The world being what it is, our rivalry is inescapable. But in this matter of Giovanni, you and I must agree. Legitimization will protect his life and remove the stain of bastardy.”

As soon as he said the words, I knew them for a truth. Clement would never allow me to raise another man’s son in the palace. That was why my petition had fallen on deaf ears. Clement had most likely blocked it without telling me. I was so distressed I could scarcely speak. “It would break Giovanni’s ties to me.”

He spoke softly. “They are already broken. He thinks his mother is dead.”

“You cannot have told the child this!”

“It is kinder to stay dead than show him who you actually are,” Francesco reasoned. “He could never hold up his head amongst men.”

Certainly Giovanni had little future as the son of a femme seule, even one who had risen to my rank and titles. Some part of me had known this all along.

“I wish to leave Cardinal Colonna’s service and go back to Italy, to my father’s town of Florence. They expelled him with a price on his head, but now they wish to pay me honours. I will accept them for Giovanni’s sake. He will stand on my shoulders as I stood on my father’s. The further I take him from Avignon, the safer he will be. Shall you give us fair wind?”

“You’ve left me no choice, since I want Giovanni to be out of harm’s way.” I reminded myself that although many noblemen fathered
children, then washed their hands of them, Francesco was acting with integrity. Giovanni would be raised in the manner I had always wished for him. My son would wear the Petrarch arms in pride.

“Now let us be friends,” he said, “since Fate has decreed we can no longer be lovers.”

His look was full of regret, as though he was put out with Fate, her decrees, and everything about her. When I extended my hand in friendship, he pressed it against his heart. A hand’s-breadth away, his soul tugging at mine, he was easy to forgive. We gazed at each other for many minutes, knowing we might never be close enough to touch again. I had discovered my own way to his heart—and he still had one.

At last, I let go. I went to the library door and locked it with my key from the inside. Francesco threw off King Robert’s velvet gown, spread it across the floor to cushion us, and drew me down beside him. Soon he was unpinning my hair as he used to do. Once a few jewels were unfastened, the strands tumbled in a glossy heap. I rubbed my hands to heat them, then touched the sword-bite in the hollow of his collarbone. Now something less spiritual came between us. He, too, was feeling it. From underneath his cloak of honour sprang up a full, well-muscled appetite.