Bianca: The Silk Merchant's Daughters Read online

  “Madre di Dios,” the older girl whispered almost to herself. Then she said, “What else, Francesca? What else did you hear?”

  “Nothing. I heard someone coming. I didn’t want anyone catching me. You know Papa would have whipped me for it. I didn’t dare stay,” was the regretful reply.

  Bianca nodded. “I will speak with our mother,” she told her sister.

  “Ohh, please don’t tell that I eavesdropped!” Francesca begged.

  “I won’t,” Bianca promised. “I’ll say I heard the servants gossiping. Mama will tell me if any such arrangements for my future have been made. She will know.”

  “I don’t want you to marry and leave us,” the younger girl admitted. “I didn’t mean it when I said I’d be glad to have you gone.”

  “I know that, little ficcanaso,” Bianca assured her sibling with a small smile. Then she went off to find their mother and learn the truth of what her sister had heard.

  “Your mother is closeted with the master,” Fabia, her mother’s servingwoman, told Bianca. Then she lowered her voice to speak in a more confidential tone. “It is something serious, for I heard your mother raising her voice, which is most unlike her.”

  “I have heard rumors regarding a marriage for me,” Bianca said softly.

  Suddenly the door to her mother’s privy chamber was flung open, and her father, his face dark with anger, strode out and past them, exiting Lady Orianna’s apartments.

  “I will never forgive you for this, Gio!” her mother shouted after him. “Never!” Then, seeing Bianca, she burst into tears, turned, and slammed the door shut behind her.

  “I must go to her,” Fabia said.

  Bianca nodded, and left her mother’s rooms. Her mother had shouted. Orianna never shouted. And she had looked positively distraught. Orianna Rafaela Maria Theresa Venier, a principessa of the great Venetian Republic, never raised her voice, never allowed her emotions to show, and yet she had done both within hearing of not only her eldest daughter but a servant as well. Whatever was happening was not a good thing.

  Francesca awaited Bianca in her elder sister’s bedchamber. “What did you learn?” she demanded.

  Bianca told her of the scene that she and Fabia had just witnessed.

  Francesca’s blue-green eyes grew round. “Our mother never shouts like some common fishwife,” she said. “And to tell our father she would never forgive him . . . what has he done to incur such wrath from her?”

  “I do not know,” Bianca said, “but I suspect if we are to learn, it will be sooner than later.” A rap sounded on the closed bedchamber door. “Come!” Bianca called out.

  The door opened to reveal their eldest brother, Marco. He stepped quickly into the room, closing the door behind him. “This is all my fault,” he said, taking her two hands in his own. “I must beg your forgiveness, Bianca.” He looked genuinely shamefaced and sorrowful at the same time.

  Both of his sisters looked totally confused.

  Finally Bianca said, “Why must you ask for my pardon, Marco? You have done nothing of which I am aware that would require it.”

  “Sit down,” Marco invited. “Not you, Francesca. You must leave. What I have to say is for Bianca’s ears only, not yours, bambina. Go now.” He pointed to the door.

  “I am not a baby. Giulia is the baby. I am ten going on eleven, Marco.”

  He smiled, and gently tugged on the thick golden braid into which her hair was now fashioned. “Don’t listen at the door,” he cautioned her with a mischievous grin.

  “Oh! You!” Francesca huffed as she left the bedchamber.

  Marco watched her go down the wide corridor and around the corner. She turned to stick her tongue out at him before she disappeared, which caused him to chuckle as he turned back to Bianca and shut the door to the room firmly. “Come,” he said, taking her arm by the elbow. “By the window, where the little ficcanaso can’t hear us when she sneaks back to listen, which she will.” His face grew serious once again. He looked like a younger version of their father, with curly black hair and bright blue eyes.

  Bianca smiled, amused. “Yes, she will.” They moved to the window, and Bianca said, “What disturbs you, Marco?”

  “My actions have put your future in jeopardy, I fear.” Then he began to explain in low, measured tones. “I apologize for what I must tell you, for I know how sheltered you are, and a virgin of good family should not hear things like this, but I have no choice, Bianca. Several months ago my friend Stefano Rovere and I were visiting a certain lady known for her amorous skills, who willingly shares them with young men just beginning to explore such masculine delights,” Marco explained. He actually blushed as he spoke, for he was fifteen and did not discuss such things with respectable women.

  “You visited a courtesan,” Bianca remarked calmly. “Our mother has mentioned such women to me. She and I pray for them. It is not an easy life, I am told.”

  “The woman died as Stefano vigorously rode her,” Marco said bluntly, for he could not think of any way to put it more delicately.

  “Madre di Dios!” Bianca exclaimed, crossing herself.

  “It was then that Stefano and I did a foolish thing,” Marco continued. “The woman’s house was empty of servants the night we visited. I wanted to call the authorities and report the woman’s death, but Stefano did not wish to do it. He feared the scandal, should we be accused of killing her. He feared his father’s anger over such a disgraceful situation, that his father should be forced to pay a bribe to keep the watch silent. He feared that someone connected with the woman would know it was Stefano Rovere, son of Florence’s most famed lawyer, and Marco Pietro d’Angelo, son of the head of the Arte di Por Santa Maria who had been the last to be with this courtesan.”

  “What did you do?” Bianca asked almost fearfully.

  “We wrapped her naked body in a Turkish carpet, weighed it with several heavy stones, bound it, and then carried it to the river,” Marco said. “We rowed the body into the center of the Arno near the Ponte Vecchio and dumped it into the water. The stones assured that it sank to the bottom.”

  “God have mercy on the poor woman’s soul,” Bianca murmured. She was pale with shock over her brother’s confession. “But why should this unfortunate courtesan’s death affect what will happen to me, Brother?”

  “My tale is not yet completed,” he responded. Then he continued. “Stefano then decided we should go to his father and tell him what had happened. He said his father was always accusing him of being an idiot. He wanted to show his father that he had been able to extricate himself from a nasty situation without his help. I did not think it wise. I thought, having disposed of the body, we should keep silent. No one would have known, as there were no witnesses to the deed.”

  “And was Master Rovere pleased with Stefano?” Bianca asked quietly. How did a father react to a son who had just disposed of the dead body of a courtesan in secret?

  “Stefano’s father is a hard man. He listened. Then he hit his son a blow that bloodied his nose and sent him to his knees. Master Rovere went on to explain in that cold, calm voice of his that the sudden disappearance of such a woman of certain reputation as well known as this one was would surely be questioned. He explained that it would now be necessary to fabricate a story to cover up what had happened, and protect our reputations. Then he sent me to fetch our father, Bianca.

  “When Father came I stood and listened as Master Rovere explained to him what had happened with us earlier; that he had already sent his people to see that the house showed no signs of any sort of a disturbance. Several of the woman’s gowns and other clothing, along with her jewelry box, were removed so that it appeared that she had gone on a sudden journey. When the courtesan’s servants, such as they were, arrived in the morning, one of Master Rovere’s own servants would be waiting to explain to them that their mistress had
been called away suddenly and did not know when she would return. Her affairs in Florence were now in the hands of her lawyer. The servants would be paid off generously and the house shut up. Thus would the scandal be avoided.

  “Our father thanked Master Rovere, who smiled at him and said that Father would now owe him a debt that must be repaid whenever Master Rovere required it of him. Father agreed, saying that the Pietro d’Angelo family always paid their debts, and returned a favor twofold. Whatever was required to eventually cancel out the debt would be done.” Marco then grew silent, looking with pained eyes at his beautiful sister.

  And then she knew. Bianca Pietro d’Angelo might be sheltered, but she was not unintelligent. “I am the payment Master Rovere has required of our father,” she said quietly. “He is a widower and seeks another wife.”

  “I should rather see you in a cloistered convent, or even dead, than married to that man!” Marco burst out bitterly. “This is all my fault!”

  Bianca was silent for several long minutes. Finally she spoke. “Papa has agreed? Of course he would have agreed, for our mother told him she would never forgive him. Why did he agree, Marco? Would Master Rovere take nothing else in payment? And several months after the fact, would the scandal be so great? His son was involved as well. After all, you did not kill the woman. She simply died while entertaining a pair of young men. Yes, it was wrong to dispose of her body in such a fashion, but you and Stefano are guilty of nothing more than being fools.”

  “Father offered him money, even a ten percent share of his warehouses, anything else, but Master Rovere was adamant. He will have you as his wife. Nothing else will satisfy the debt Father owes him. It has now become a matter of honor for our parent, Bianca,” Marco explained to his sister. “Our father cannot be seen to eschew the debt simply because he now finds he does not like the payment asked of him. After all, he agreed to pay whatever the price, and did not question the cost at the time.”

  “Yes, I understand,” his sister replied. “Has a date been set for my marriage?”

  “Papa and Mama will tell you of your fate tonight. I don’t know what they have decided. If I know our mother, she will attempt to delay the inevitable as long as she can.”

  “Yes,” Bianca agreed, “she will.”

  “I had to tell you, Bianca,” her older sibling said. “I know Papa will not tell you why you are to marry this man. It is too shameful that you must be sacrificed for my sins. I did not want it to come as a complete shock to you. You should have a French duke or a princeling of Venice for your husband, not this man! His reputation is vile, for all his skills in the courts.”

  Bianca was frightened and heartsore by what Marco had told her, but he was her beloved brother. She was closer to him by virtue of the thirteen months that separated them in birth order than to any of the others. She would do whatever her family requested of her to protect him, to protect their good name. “It will be all right, Marco,” she assured him. “I must marry eventually, and I am of an age to do so now. Our mother has raised me to be a good wife and chatelaine. I will have children to comfort me, and he, like all wealthy and important men, will have a mistress to entertain him. When the novelty of having a young wife has worn off, he will leave me in peace. Yes, I had hoped to wed out of Florence, but if it is not to be, then it is not. There is no use weeping over what cannot be changed.” She patted his velvet-clad arm. “Leave me to absorb this so I am able to behave with some decorum when our father speaks to me. I do not want our parents to be ashamed of their eldest daughter when I am informed of my fate. Nor do I wish to cause a further breach between them. Rather, by accepting what I must with obedience, I pray I will heal that chasm that has opened to separate them.”

  He nodded and kissing her on the forehead, left her bedchamber. In the corridor outside he found, as he had anticipated, Francesca lurking and eager to know what had transpired between her elders. “Nay, ficcanaso, you may not go in and badger Bianca. What we have spoken about will remain between us. She is resting now.”

  “Marco!” Francesca gave him her prettiest pout and a little smile.

  “No,” he said, taking her by the arm. “One of the house cats has just birthed a new litter of kittens,” he said, cleverly distracting her. “I’m surprised you didn’t know about it. It’s the red, white, and black one we call Tre. Let’s go and see what she has spawned.”

  “Aren’t you too sophisticated to look at litters of kittens?” Francesca demanded.

  “Not when it’s with my little sister,” Marco replied, taking her around the corner and off to the kitchens, where the cat was certain to be found. The cook loved cats, for they kept the rodent population down and her stores in the storeroom safe.

  Bianca had heard Francesca’s voice outside her chamber. She was grateful that Marco kept the younger girl from the room. She wanted to be alone to consider what was about to happen to her life. She had met Stefano Rovere several times, for he was Marco’s best friend and was often invited to eat at their table. He was a serious boy. It would not be so bad if she were betrothed to him. At least he was young. But to marry his father? Bianca shuddered. And there was a younger brother. Could she tell her parents that she had heard a sudden calling from God and wanted to become a nun? It was doubtful they would believe her, even if she insisted it was true.

  The morning ended and the afternoon passed slowly until it was time for the main meal of the day. Her parents were unusually quiet during the meal, although the younger children were so lively it was not likely that anyone noticed. The family and their servants crowded about the table in the sala da pranzo eating the pasta and meats the cook had prepared for them. There was a large bowl filled with grapes and oranges. Neither Bianca nor Marco could eat a great deal, something their mother noted to herself. Francesca had told Orianna that the two had been closeted for a brief time in late morning.

  “Bianca.” Their father spoke.

  “How may I serve you, signore?” the girl replied.

  “You will leave the table and go to my library. Your mother and I would speak with you shortly,” Giovanni Pietro d’Angelo said. Then he picked up his silver goblet and drank deeply. That he looked troubled was not reassuring.

  “At once, signore,” Bianca responded. She did not look at any of them about the table but rose and hurried from the room. Entering the library, she stood awaiting the arrival of her parents. They did not keep her long.

  Her parents seated themselves in two high-backed chairs and beckoned Bianca to stand before them. Her father’s face was serious and pained. Her mother looked as if she had been crying. There were actual tears in her eyes now.

  “You are to be married,” her father began. “Your bridegroom is a man of both wealth and importance here in Florence. You are a most fortunate girl, Bianca, to have attracted such a husband.”

  “May I know the name of this illustrious gentleman, signore?” Bianca asked in a quietly measured voice. She was amazed by her tone, for her legs were slightly shaking.

  “He is Sebastiano Rovere, Stefano’s sire,” her father replied.

  “Stefano is only older by several months than my brother Marco,” Bianca heard herself saying. She had no choice in this matter, but suddenly she was angry at her father for not fighting harder to protect her; for the bitter and hopeless tears her mother had shed this day, and would continue to shed. “You are giving me in marriage to a man old enough to be my father? How could you, Papa? How could you?” She hadn’t meant to lose her temper, but the situation facing her was intolerable.

  “A young wife needs the firm hand of an older husband,” her father answered sharply. Her words had stung him. “You must learn to curb your temper, Bianca.”

  “I am told this man’s reputation is less than respectable,” Bianca persisted. Did the gossips not hint that he had murdered his first two wives?

  “Who has told y
ou such things?” her father demanded angrily. “It is not your place, daughter, to speak disparagingly of a man you have not yet met. Sebastiano Rovere is the most skilled attorney in all of Florence. He is respected and he is rich. No maiden of good family could ask for more than that.”

  “The servants will gossip,” Bianca responded pertly. “They say that while he is rich and clever at his craft, he is wicked and godless. And this is the man you have chosen for me, Papa? Have I been so wretched a daughter then that you are willing and eager to entertain the first offer for my hand that is brought to you?”

  “You should not be listening to the idle chatter of menials,” her father responded through gritted teeth. In his mind, she was correct, but it was not her place to criticize him. She did not know of the circumstances that had brought about this catastrophe. He had no other choice. Marco was his heir, and his reputation for honesty would surely suffer if the truth came out about that night. It was the sort of thing that was never forgotten, and it would reflect on the family’s silk business. It could not be permitted to happen.

  “Why must I marry this old man?” Bianca asked him. “Could you not have found me a younger husband? A noble husband?”

  “How dare you question my decision, daughter? You have never before done so,” her father replied, defending himself. She was his daughter. It was her duty to obey his every wish whether she approved of it or not. “I have never before beaten you, but I will, Bianca, should you defy me in this matter. It is not your place to say whether you will or you won’t wed the gentleman I have chosen for you. I have accepted Sebastiano Rovere’s proposal of marriage in your name, and you will wed him as soon as the date is fixed. That is the end of the matter. Now there is another matter that must be settled. Your fidanzato has heard of the spectacle you have been causing in the piazza when you go to Mass with your mother each morning. He does not wish his future wife to be the center of such foolishness. You will again join your younger siblings when Father Aldo says Mass in the house chapel every day.”