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The Devil to Pay.

 

 

Central Italy, June 1492.

 

Cara Montessori was sick of people trying to kill her.

She’d become accustomed to it, of course; as a child she’d trailed her father on campaign through some of the most godforsaken places in Christendom. It had been a rare week that hadn’t included a scimitar-wielding Saracen or bloodthirsty Moor trying to send her to the afterlife.

Familiarity, however, didn’t make the experience any more enjoyable. And besides, those instances had been impersonal, whereas this attempt was personal in the extreme. ‘Uncle’ Lorenzo would not leave her alive to dispute his seizure of Castelleon.

His men were still behind her, annoyingly persistent; he must have offered an impressive ransom to keep them on her tail. Cara doubted her life was worth much, but everyone had their price. She was staking her life on that very premise, about to make a deal with the devil himself.

Cara shivered. She hated being cold. At least if she ended up in hell for bartering her soul she’d be warm.

Alessandro del Sarto, ‘Il Diavolo,’ was the last person in Italy she’d have chosen to ask for help. Unfortunately his dubious talents were the only thing that could keep her alive. Del Sarto was condottieri. A killer for hire.

Cara wrinkled her nose in distaste. Mercenary described both his profession and his nature. Il Diavolo sold himself to the highest bidder. He didn’t care whether the cause was worth fighting for, or which side won or lost. Only whether the victor could pay his exorbitant fees. Every monarch in Europe wanted him. And now she needed him, too.

‘Better to dance with the devil you know,’ her father used to say. Well, she hadn’t seen this particular devil in six long years, and the last time they’d met he’d kissed her and she’d threatened to kill him. He’d haunted her dreams ever since.

She willed her exhausted horse forward, and wished—for perhaps the hundredth time—that she’d stolen a mount with a better saddle. The urge to slump over the animal’s scrawny neck was strong. She hadn’t eaten for two days, hadn’t dared stop for more than an hour at most. Every jolt of the horse’s hooves reopened the wound at her ribs and brought a fresh wave of dizziness and pain. Perchance the quick slash of an assassin’s blade would be preferable to dying slowly of blood loss. . .

No. She was going to reach Il Diavolo. She had hundreds of things she wanted to do before leaving this world, and she’d hardly managed any of them. Quite apart from avenging her father’s death and regaining her home, she planned on dying a wrinkled old crone in a nice warm bed, surrounded by a huge and loving family. A young, heroic death was all very well in principle, but the reality looked distinctly unappealing.

Blood thrummed in her ears and whirling lights crowded her vision like fireflies. She shook her head to clear it. The horse crested a rise, and there it was; Torre di San Rocco, the fortified city strongold of Italy’s most famous son, outlined by the setting sun.

Thank you, Lord.

Cara kicked the horse’s flanks. She would reach Il Diavolo, or die trying.

 

 

Chapter 1.

 

“You’ve got to choose one of them. What about Lucrezia Borgia?”

Alessandro del Sarto drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair and briefly considered strangling his second-in-command. Not enough to kill him, of course. Just enough to stop this infernal listing of prospective brides.

He’d spent all day scaring the wits out of people and his head ached as if he’d been hit with a battle-axe. First, he’d dealt with a line of petitioners who’d flocked to the castle to beg him to settle their petty disputes. He didn’t care who’d stolen whose goat. Then he’d spent a few hours thrashing the cockiness out of some raw recruits on the training field. That had been fun, admittedly, but now his injured shoulder hurt like the devil. Lastly, he’d overseen the flogging of a man convicted of assault; all that screaming and begging for mercy had made his ears ring.

Alessandro took a sip of wine and cast a simmering glance over the crowd milling before the dais. Even those brave enough to meet his eyes failed to hold his gaze for longer than a heartbeat. What had Machiavelli said the other day? ‘Better to be feared than loved.’ Absolutely right. Alessandro smiled at a servant, baring his teeth in the merest hint of a snarl—and chuckled as the poor boy paled in fright and dropped his tray.

Francesco Neroni shot him a disapproving glance. “Stop ignoring me. You haven’t lost your hearing as well as the use of your sword arm.”

Alessandro’s glower usually had the power to send brave men scurrying from the room. Sadly, it had no effect on the grizzled old soldier next to him.

“You look like a bulldog that’s swallowed a wasp,” Francesco said calmly. “You forget, my lord, that I’m immune to your scowls.” He pushed forward a small portrait. “What’s wrong with the Borgia girl? She’s pretty enough. And she buried her first husband a year ago, so you won’t have to contend with a simpering virgin.”

“I don’t care if she speaks seventeen languages and plays the lute like an angel. I’m not marrying anyone, least of all Rodrigo Borgia’s bastard.”

“He is the Pope. No harm in getting on God’s good side.”

Alesandro snorted. “It’s a sad outlook for Christians everywhere if the Almighty’s best representative on earth is that whoring, murdering tyrant. And you’ve conveniently forgotten her brother. Cesare’s a lunatic.”

“Hardly the perfect brother-in-law, I’ll admit. Rumour has it he’s already killed one brother.” Francesco drew a line through the name at the top of his list. “Pity. You need all the divine blessing you can get.”

“Your concern for my blackened soul is touching,” Alessandro said dryly. “But the answer is still no.”

“Fine. Forget an alliance with Rome. What about Naples? There’s the sister of the king of Navarre . . .” The next portrait showed a buxom girl with a huge ruby nestled in her mountainous cleavage. “Fantastic breasts,” Francesco coaxed. “It’s like she’s got two piglets wrestling in her bodice.”

Alessandro glanced over. “She looks like a horse.”

“You love horses.”

“That’s true. Find me a woman as brave and loyal as Saraceno and I’ll marry her on the spot, whatever she looks like.”

It was Francesco’s turn to snort. “Bollocks! You’ve an eye for beauty, whether it’s horseflesh or women.” He sighed deeply. “I don’t know why you’re being so fussy. They’re all the same with the lights out. You don’t look at the fireplace when you’re poking the fire, do you?”

Alessandro rolled his eyes. “I bet the ladies just love that silver tongue of yours.”

“I do well enough, thank you.”

“Not with the only one you actually want. How is Renata?”

A flush reddened Francesco’s neck at the mention of his unrequited love. “She’s fine.”

Alessandro shrugged negligently. “You’re probably the only man in the entire keep who hasn’t had her. Just go to her room, slip her a few coins, and put yourself out of your misery.”

Francesco scowled. “I will not! She doesn’t do that sort of thing any more.”

Alessandro raised his hands in surrender. “Eh, I admire her. At least she and the other camp followers are honest in their dealings.” He nodded at Francesco’s paper. “Those high-born girls on your list are no different, though they pretend otherwise. They’re all willing to sell themselves. The only difference is the price.”

Francesco deleted another name. “No to Principessa d’Albret then.” He brushed the feathered end of his quill back and forth against his chin, where it caught against the bristles of his beard. “You’re not making this easy. How hard can it be to choose a wife from scores of rich, beautiful, pampered women?”

“Ah, yes, it is wonderful to be me.” Alessandro spread his arms in a mocking, theatrical gesture that made the nearest candles flicker. “Behold, Il Diavolo,” he lowered his voice so only Francesco could hear. “I couldn’t even fight an old woman at the moment. Who wouldn’t want me as a husband?”

“Stop being so dramatic. You’ll be fine in a few weeks.”

Alessandro growled. “We got back from Spain three months ago and I still can’t grip my sword properly. Those same princes begging me to marry their daughters would be outside the city walls challenging me to a fight if they knew I’d been injured.” He glared at the room in general. “God, I hate sitting around doing nothing. I’d give anything to be to be spurring Saraceno into battle.”

Francesco shrugged. “I’m not the only one who’s got used to a roof over my head and hot food in my belly. The men are glad to be taking a break, though they’d never admit it. Maybe it’s a sign you should think about settling down.”

Alessandro didn’t answer, so Francesco forged on. “How about one of the Chigi girls? He’s the Borgias’ financial man. They call him ‘God’s banker’ in Rome. He’s even richer than you. I heard at his feasts at his villa on the banks of the Tiber he serves his guests on solid gold plates. They throw them into the water when they’re finished.”

Alessandro snorted. “He sends divers into the river with nets as soon as everyone’s gone home.”

“Oh.” Francesco scratched out two more names. “Well, you’ve rejected Florence, Naples, Rome, Milan, and Venice. There’s hardly anywhere left.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You haven’t had a woman since we got back, Sandro. It’s doing nothing to improve your temper, let me tell you.”

Alessandro ignored him. “None of those girls would have me if they knew they were being bound to a cripple.”

“Ugh. Don’t exaggerate. It’s only temporary.” Francesco inhaled sharply as a new thought struck him. “God, you haven’t lost the use of that blade, have you?” He shot a meaningful glance at Alessandro’s crotch.

Alessandro chuckled at his horrified expression. “No.”

“Sure? Want me to send a girl up? Check everything’s in working order? We’ve just got a new kitchen maid from Bologna. She’s not a great looker, but she’s very enthusiastic.”

“Not tonight. I’m in no mood for company.”

Francesco shrugged. “Your loss.” He studied his list again. “You know, you’re going to have to choose one of these girls eventually, just to keep the peace.”

Alessandro suppressed a howl of frustration. The scheming and machinations of court life bored him to tears. He hated the endless plotting and posturing, gossiping and backstabbing that would accompany his guests when they arrived in a week’s time. All those overdressed, slyly manipulating ladies with their not-so-subtle innuendoes and flirtations. Offers to grace his bed in return for a glittering trinket or political favour.

It wasn’t in his nature to pander and fawn. Action was always better than diplomacy. Bad enough that he was even considering a pact of non-aggression with his neighbours so they could unite against the French. But to marry one of their spoilt, whining daughters as well, to sweeten the deal? That was too much.

“They’ll never leave you alone until you’re married,” Francesco murmured.

“Don’t you ever give up?”

The commander shook his head.

On the battlefield Francesco’s refusal to admit defeat was a quality Alessandro truly appreciated. In this instance, however, it was just bloody irritating. He stretched his hand forward with a resigned  sigh. “Give it here. I’ll look at it again, but not tonight. I’m going to bed.”