Suicide Kings (17 page)

The Friar appeared to lose his strength for standing and settled down on the altar steps. He crossed his fingers in front of his face, watching her through them. “You know already your mother was involved with the physical degenerate called the Boar.”

“Pietro Benedetto, yes, I know of him.”

“Then you know that together, they became involved with the cult that calls itself the Sacred Council of Apostles. Their involvement with the Council naturally provides one thread for your inquiry. There is another you might consider.”

Diana’s brows furrowed. “What would that be?”

“The relationship between your mother, Isabella Savrano, and Pietro Benedetto may have extended beyond the spiritual.”

Diana pulled a face. “That’s absurd.”

“Because of his visage, you mean.” Savonarola nodded. “I agree that lust of the flesh is unlikely for a soul such as Pietro Benedetto. However, there can be little doubt the Boar and your mother were of like minds. They spent time together, they spoke like intimates do. Who can say where there is such a meeting of minds between man and woman, whether the heart will follow? Whether or not this is even true, there is only the appearance of such infatuation to be considered.”

Diana thought for a moment. Her mother met regularly with Pietro, both as part of the Council, then later according to her own letter, alone with him. Her relationship with him remained secret, as part of her larger involvement with the Council. However, could their relationship have seemed something more than two friends conjoined on a spiritual quest? Could they have appeared to be lovers, despite Pietro’s obvious physical abnormalities? Could someone prone to jealousy have read the signs in such a way? The implication dawned on Diana with horror and revulsion. “You dare to accuse my father?” she barked at Savonarola, no longer watching her tone.

If the Friar took offense at her impudence, he gave no sign of it. “I merely open a line of inquiry that would be obvious to most investigators. Is it not true in the case of murder, that the victim most often has been betrayed by those closest to their hearts? We seldom have more to fear than from those who mask their hate in the guise of love.”

Diana took a step back, unbalanced by his words. Could it be that her own father was involved in her mother’s death? Did she dare to even think such thoughts? She wished she could think it absurd, but how well did she know her own father after all? Could his distance from his own wife and daughter extend to murder? She looked at the stone floor in shame.

“Consider fully the costs you may pay, before you continue your quest for answers,” Savonarola intoned.

Diana let out a long slow breath. Her composure returned as she did so. She managed to look up and meet Savonarola’s gaze once again. “What of you, Friar? With due respect, I am certain that you did not invite me here to give me a fatherly lecture. What is your interest in the death of my mother?”

Savonarola’s grin widened, appearing quite satisfied once again. Diana got the sensation that she was being put to…and thus far passing, certain tests. “My interest is in the Sacred Council of Apostles, to which your mother was privy.”

“I don’t understand. As anti-papists, do you not share their views?”

Savonarola’s grin curled into a sneer. “Though it is true the Papacy has lost its way and come to rest in the hands of a defiler, Rodrigo Borgia, I find no common cause with the Sacred Council of Apostles. I seek to restore the throne of St. Peter to the humility and grace of the Mother Church of Christ. The Council seeks to place upon the throne of the Holy See, one who is legion with God’s most favored and most despised angel.”

Diana absorbed his words, thinking for a moment. “Lucifer? You claim the Council are Satanists?” If true, Pietro had left out a considerable detail to his narrative.

“They are, although that information is known only to their more trusted members. It is a secret unlocked through advancement in their ranks. Their belief is that Lucifer was wronged by God, and that he is deserving of the throne of heaven as a good and righteous leader of men. They have been fooled by his charm and his lies. Your mother, entrusted into their upper echelon, learned their secret. She came to me in horror and confessed her sins. Absolved, she sought only to undo the damage that she had wrought.”

Diana’s mind reeled with the revelation. Pietro might not have known about the Council’s darker motives. Isabella Savrano had convinced him to join the cult. She must have been trying to get him to leave the cult before…before what? Diana exhaled sharply and put a hand to her mouth. “The young man Troilo Ricci who the Council accused of spying for the Republic…it was not he who had betrayed them, but my mother!”

Savonarola nodded. “The raid on their abhorrent coven failed, scattering them like frightened rats. Had it but succeeded this entire episode would be behind us, and your mother a hero of the Republic.”

“Then you do think it was the Council who killed my mother. My father is innocent!”

For once, Savonarola looked disappointed. “You cling to the narrative you wish to be true. I have no evidence that the Council discovered her cooperation with the Republic, so all alternatives remain possible. We must each consider further, it may well have been your father who introduced your mother to the Council in the first place, and he placed higher than her within their hierarchy of power.”

Diana considered Savonarola’s words. It all seemed too farfetched, her parents members of a Satanic guild. Yet even what she knew to be true thus far, her mother involved, yet perhaps working as a spy for the Republic, that was farfetched enough. Her entire world seemed turned upside down. She wasn’t sure she really knew anyone anymore. “I cannot believe I knew of none of this. How could I have not seen what occurred in my own household? I was so content to remain alone in my rooms with my books and my things, and I did nothing to help my mother when she needed me most.”

Savonarola looked up at the ceiling with its elaborate paintings. His face revealed not adoration but repulsion. “Silly books and pretty baubles, are they not at the heart of all vanity? And is not vanity at the heart of all sin?” He looked back down at Diana. “What matters is that your current actions do honor to your mother’s memory. Go now, in peace.”

Chapter Ten

Snow and Ash

Duties for the gendarmes apparently did not extend to escorting Diana home. Just as well, perhaps; it gave Diana time to think, and she had much to think over. Granted, like all the players in this increasingly complex drama, she had to wonder about Savonarola’s motives and, thus, the quality of his information. If he were blatantly against her interests, interfering with her quest would be of little difficulty. He could accuse her of witchcraft and have her burned in the Piazza della Signoria. She’d hardly be the first. Nonetheless, if his interference was limited to toying with her in the Basilica in which her mother was buried, she felt safe in ruling him out as a major opponent, at least for a time. Was his information good though? Her mother involved with a Satanic cult…ultimately spying on behalf of the Republic? And Savonarola’s suggestion that her father might have played a role in her mother’s death, could she dare to consider the unthinkable? She set that thought aside for the moment. At best, it was idle speculation on Savonarola’s part. The rest he had told at least had the vestige of being informed fact. It fit she supposed, even with Pietro’s story, assuming her mother hadn’t gotten the chance to warn him to leave the group. Or perhaps he hadn’t believed her…or perhaps he hadn’t cared.

Diana walked with her head down, thinking and ignoring the other pedestrians. She realized her boots were crunching new-fallen snow and looked up at the light gray sky while icy flakes fell onto her face. Snowing again, and looking like it would be a significant amount. Would this winter never end?

It was curious, what Savonarola had said about potentially finding answers to her questions that she wouldn’t like. He had used that to lead into insinuations about her father. What troubled her now was that Savonarola hadn’t been the only one to warn her. If he knew something more, he appeared disinclined to tell her. The other had been the anchoress, Francesca di Lucca, who’d made the same warning as part of a prophesy. Perhaps the theatrics about divine inspiration had merely been that—theatrics. Or perhaps a girl foolish enough to barricade herself in a cold cell, would be impressionable enough to interpret a bit of overheard gossip as a holy prophesy. No doubt the anchoress overheard immeasurable amounts of tittle-tattle as townspeople came to her for prayers and intercessions. Maybe she’d even received a confession or partial confession that had influenced her. Anchoress or not, what she heard from others was not bound by the sanctity of priestly privilege. Whatever the girl knew, Diana would find some way to wrench it out of her.

Determined, Diana turned to the South, across the Arno for the walk to the convent at Sant Cecilia. She crossed the Ponte Vecchio and headed up into the foothills, reaching the convent by midday. The grounds were quiet, only a few of the sisters out and these ignored her. She moved quickly to the little alcove of the anchoress, which she blessedly found free of other penitents. In fact, the stone shelter seemed so quiet she irrationally thought that the anchoress might have left the structure for some form of holiday.

Peering in through the window, she found Francesca di Lucca resting on the simple cot within. To announce herself, Diana tapped her fingers against the stone wall. The sound was disappointing, but it sufficed to stir Francesca. The anchoress’ face lit up. “Diana Savrano, I am surprised to see you here again. It is a pleasure that you would visit me. How have you been?”

Diana put her hands on the sill, startled by the cold stone. How could the poor foolish girl survive like this? “Things are a little unbalanced, as you might imagine.”

“I’ve been thinking of you much since you came last. I hope I did not upset you greatly.”

The forlorn expression on Francesca’s face touched Diana. “You didn’t upset me,” she assured her, struggling to place a smile on her face. “In fact I hoped to speak with you a bit about that day.” She found it hard to think of the words. At last she burst out with a little self-conscious laughter. “Oh my, you know I should have brought you something, some fresh bread or some good wine.”

Francesca smiled. “I didn’t ask to be secluded behind these walls to be given offerings. I appreciate the thought. Have you come to pray with me?”

Diana looked down. “Not exactly, I’m afraid. I’ve come to ask you about the other day when you gave me the…prophecy. You told me something to the effect that I would be troubled by what I might find.”

Francesca watched her without saying a word.

Diana continued on, “I’ve just met with Friar Savonarola and he told me much the same thing.”

“Friar Savonarola,” Francesca repeated with raised eyebrows, although her thoughts were otherwise unfathomable.

“Yes. Obviously it occurs to me that he might know something, although I have little means to persuade him to tell me anything he does not wish. As an alternative, I hoped perhaps the words you said to me might have been influenced by something you might have heard. People speak to you of many things, town gossip, confessions…”

Francesca looked confused. “My words to you were influenced only by God.”

Diana winced. How would she get what she wanted from the girl without offending her religious sensibilities, nonsense though they might be? “Yes, but sometimes God works in odd ways, does he not? Perhaps if you think back there might be something, a past meeting with a penitent that planted the seed of some suspicion.”

Francesca shook her head after only a moment of thought. “Nothing I can recollect. Besides, even if someone had told me something, I’m not sure I would be allowed to repeat it to you. If it were said in confidence between them and God, that is.”

A hot wellspring of frustration rose up in her. “You’re no priest,” she accused with unintended venom, “you do not intercede on behalf of God. What people say to you and you to them has no special meaning.”

The words spent, Diana’s frustration eased, yet she immediately regretted her lack of tact. Francesca looked stunned, deeply wounded. The older girl’s eyes darted up and down as if in confusion.

“Oh, Francesca,” Diana sighed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I only hoped you might be able to tell me something.”

Like a snake, Francesca’s hands darted out and seized Diana’s from the windowsill. The older girl’s fingers seemed if anything, colder than the stone. They held Diana firm, like wires. Diana could only stare back in shock.

“I know you need answers,” Francesca whispered, eyes like deep pools. Then she closed her eyes, and held Diana’s hands only tighter. “Dearest father, hear our prayers. We come to you with deepest humility and pray for your heavenly guidance…”

A repeat of the previous prophecy, only this time Diana decided she had nothing to lose. Closing her eyes, she hoped something of value would come of this. After a moment of listening to Francesca’s prayers she became aware of feeling lightheaded. She opened her eyes, watching Francesca swaying back and forth in her holy ecstasy. Still her equilibrium seemed to fail her and increasingly she felt like she might collapse to one side. Her stomach began to rebel, nausea bubbling up from inside. She tried to pull away but Francesca held her firm.

Francesca’s breath seemed ragged, coming in unpleasant spurts. Between those breaths, Francesca intoned, “As I will be tomorrow, so has Isabella been. Your face is above mine, and you look frightened. The moon above you frames your features as your hair falls downward onto my own face. You lean down to kiss me. I am so cold.” She sucked in a breath that quivered, sounding cold and terrified at once. “Later you sit alone in an unfamiliar place. On a bed, you sit and beside you a pistol loaded with your own hand. A great despondency washes over you, I cannot see what it is that has you so fractured, and…oh!” Francesca suddenly leaned over and wretched, great dry heaves wracking her frail body.