Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance by Sara Poole Page B

dumbfounded, unsure at first that I had heard him correctly. I
knew
my father. I had been raised by him, a motherless only child. He had shaped my knowledge of the world, given me what wisdom I possessed, and always treated me with what I was certain was impeccable honesty.
    Except that he had never mentioned his friendship with a Jewess or her dead husband, or his desire to protect the despised tribe of Israel.
    Even so, it could not possibly be true that my father was one of
them
. A Jew who had converted to Christianity. A suspect turncoatimagined to be slinking about unholy rituals while pretending to be one of us. A candidate for the flames that devour heretics.
    “I don’t believe you.” My voice was shrill and taut but I could not help that. I had been dealt a blow I could scarcely fathom.
    Borgia didn’t bother to take offense. He merely shrugged. “For all I know, his conversion may have been real. Stranger things have happened. He was born a Jew in Milan. He fell in love with a Christian girl, your mother, and converted for her sake. But he remained a believer after her death and he raised you in the true faith.” His gaze narrowed. “Or so he assured me.”
    Swiftly, I said, “I am a Christian.” Not pious, not exemplary, but not one of
them,
either. Not one of the Others, scapegoats for all our failings and our ills.
    My profession of faith did not seem to matter one way or another to this prince of Holy Mother Church. “If you say so,” Borgia told me dismissively. “Whatever else you are, you are your father’s daughter.”
    And he expected me to take up my father’s task. But if Borgia was to be believed—and I did not for a moment actually believe him, not then—my father had a motivation I lacked. As a Jew, former or otherwise, he would have had a natural inclination to prevent the extermination of his people. Of course, I didn’t relish the thought of their suffering and death. But neither was I prepared to imperil my immortal soul on their behalf.
    “I know what you want,” I said, thinking it was far more likely that Il Cardinale was simply lying about my father to secure my cooperation. “I understand completely, but so must you understand: To kill a pope and survive, there would have to be no suspicion that the death was unnatural. I have no idea how to accomplish that. Even if I did, I would be courting eternal damnation.”
    “For killing Innocent?” Borgia looked amused. “For cleansing the earth of that depraved fool? Oh, yes, the angels will weep at his passing.”
    He rose and walked over to the high windows looking out toward the river. Transparent curtains billowed in the strengthening breeze. Another storm was brewing, perhaps greater than all the others that had swept Rome in this season of upheaval and disorder.
    When he turned back to me, he looked not angry as I had feared but merely calm, as though he had come to a decision within himself. Almost gently, he said, “In memory of your father’s faithful service, I will give you time to consider your decision. Do so carefully, Francesca.”
    I was foolish enough to believe him and, being a fool, departed with grateful speed to hide myself in my rooms and contemplate the enormity of what he asked.

9
    The summons came a few hours later. A harsh knock on my door, the hard smack of it being thrust open, and then a light above me as I woke, befuddled, not understanding what was happening.
    “You must come now, signorina,” a familiar voice said.
    “Vittoro—?”
    “Put this on.” He held out my robe for me.
    “Why?” I asked, my thinking slowed by surprise and dread. I had denied the Cardinal. What punishment did he intend?
    Vittoro did not reply. He merely thrust the robe toward me and said again, “Now.”
    I went; really, what choice did I have? Hustled through the dark hallway, down a flight of steps, down another, Vittoro’s hand firm on the small of my back, I struggled against the terror threatening to