The Borgia Mistress: A Novel by Sara Poole Page B

leader, they appeared to take it with good grace, although I did hear one woman mutter that it was not enough to be delayed by problems on the road north, they had to put up at a town that clearly had no idea how to treat respectable people.
    I was about to move on when my attention was caught by a member of the pilgrim party. A nun in the undyed wool habit of a Poor Clare was staring at me. The pale oval of her face, framed by her wimple and veil, had the unlined beauty of those whose holy lives seem to protect them from the depredations of time that mark the rest of us. I could not tell her age, but by the gravity of her manner I guessed that she was in her middle years. The heavy wooden cross at her waist also indicated that she had a position of authority in her order. As our eyes met, she hesitated and then, quite unmistakably, smiled.
    A moment later, the press of the crowd took her from my view. As she vanished, I was left to wonder if I had imagined her.
    The thought was fleeting. Quickly enough, I returned to my study of those newly arrived in Viterbo. If David was right, somewhere amid the motley throng of merchants, lawyers, emissaries, soldiers, mercenaries, peddlers, gypsies, entertainers, and the like, all having business in the town now that the Pope was in residence, could be the secret enemy bent on destroying Borgia. I had only to find him before he could strike.
    I had called myself Borgia’s pawn and had no illusions otherwise. But a pawn who advances deep enough into the fray and survives is promoted under the arcane rules of the game into a queen, wielding the lethal power of that high estate. To that end, I would dare all.
    But first, I sought out David, finding him in the same taverna we had frequented the day before. He was finishing a bowl of potato soup as I slipped onto the bench across from him.
    “Borgia has agreed that you should come to the palazzo,” I said after making sure we would not be overheard. “He is taking your warning seriously.”
    “I am glad to hear it. You still want me to keep a particular eye on the Spaniards?”
    I nodded and briefly explained to him why I thought Herrera might be the target. Of course, I didn’t trouble David with my idea of dealing with the beloved nephew before the assassin could do so. Borgia had ruled that out … at least for the moment.
    After David had collected his belongings, I accompanied him back to the palazzo. Together, we sought out Renaldo in the small office he had commandeered off the main hall. The steward looked even more harried and preoccupied than usual.
    “Who is this, Francesca?” Implicit in the question was why I would bother him with so lowly a creature as a jester.
    “A friend,” I said. Quickly, I explained about the assassin.
    “Another one,” Renaldo moaned when I was done. “And this one more skilled than those who have come before. Is there to be no end?”
    “Borgia is being tested,” David replied before I could. “He’s managed to plant his posterior in Saint Peter’s Chair, but now he has to prove that he can keep it there.”
    Renaldo looked at him more closely, beyond the spangled hat and parti-colored costume. “Do I know you?”
    “David has been helpful in the past,” I said. “That’s why he’s here.”
    The steward nodded in comprehension. “All right, then. We’ll slip you in among the entertainers. But if there is going to be any sort of general mayhem, I would appreciate a little advance warning.”
    I left as David was assuring him that his intentions were entirely peaceful and Renaldo had nothing whatsoever to worry about. He lied almost as well as I did.
    Speaking of lies …
    Given both the weather and the hour, I looked for Lucrezia in the solar on the uppermost floor of the palazzo. I needed to alert her to the possibility of danger, but at the same time, I was curious to see how she was coping with her sham marriage.
    Several of her ladies were there, working on the altar cloth