Cardinal Obsession Read online

  Cardinal

  Obsession

  Roy Lewis

  ROBERT HALE • LONDON

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  PROLOGUE

  They had sometimes called him Il Moro, because of his dark, swarthy complexion, but that had been when he was a child and unable to respond to the insult: matters had changed, with the vicious power that he could now unleash upon his enemies.

  It was many years now since he had heard the sobriquet: few dared use the sneering reference for he was now Duke of Milan, the Eagle, the powerful and respected Lodovico Sforza.

  Powerful, respected and ruthless. Naturally, his enemies – and there were many of them – might still call him Il Moro behind his back but they knew his reputation; they hated him for his ambitions, then for his political intrigues, not least his manoeuvrings with the French king. It was a hatred that only increased when that monarch had shown his own greed for power in Milan and the Duke was forced to change his search for allies. Lodovico’s volte-face in his creation of an alliance with Maximilian I, the Holy Roman Emperor, had caused his enemies to rage impotently. As for his acquisition of the Dukedom of Milan, there were some who whispered that it was Lodovico himself who was behind the mysterious death of his own nephew, a death that had opened the road to the dukedom for himself. In his position of power, he could afford to ignore such whispers.

  But there was another side to the personality of Il Moro: he had built up a reputation as a man widely-read, an accomplished linguist, patron of the arts and, urged by the promptings of his young wife Beatrice, the man who had commissioned Leonardo da Vinci’s magnificent painting of The Last Supper. Indeed, the Duke of Milan continued to act as patron to the accomplished and almost legendary Leonardo da Vinci, the man who not only designed engines of destruction, but who had orchestrated Lodovico’s wedding celebrations some years ago… .

  But the duke’s adored wife Beatrice was sadly no more.

  Lodovico stared blankly at the pages in front of him: he had been working on them for some hours and now, in the flickering candlelight, he was tired. He frowned as the image of Beatrice came to his mind. He had loved her well and she had proved to be a model wife, but he was a virile man and there had of course been mistresses. There was Cecilia, who had borne him a son, Lucrezia on whom he had fathered two children. Beatrice had understood; he was a lusty man in his prime and he needed to expend his sexual energies with more than one woman. And now, as he wrestled with the political problems enunciated in the documents that lay before him, other thoughts began to dance in his head, the need to return in triumph to Milan, the machinations required to bind closely to him the princes who would support him in his bid to throw out the hated French from his dukedom, but his loins stirred, not only at the memory of Beatrice but also at the thought that the time of his romantic assignation this night was now close.

  Impatiently, he thrust aside the pile of papers and rose to his feet. The woman he was expecting in his private chambers was named Carlotta Fantini. He had seen her only once, when she had been pointed out to him in the Hall of Princes; a tall, golden-haired woman with a superb body and bold eyes. Her reputation had preceded her on her arrival in Padua. She was reckoned to be a princess among courtesans and the glance she had bestowed upon him had told him that if he wished, she would be available.

  He had made arrangements that very day. One of his minions had quietly approached Carlotta in her own palazzo; he reported back to the duke that the woman would be delighted to make his closer acquaintance. The assignation had been made, but now she was late.

  He frowned. Lodovico Sforza was a man of precise and controlled habits. He devoted his daylight hours to the solution of problems, the dealing with the political demands upon his time, the necessary machinations with princes and the Pope. But with the descending twilight his thoughts turned away from the papers on his desk. A few moments ago, somewhere in the city, a bell had sounded the hour. It meant that Carlotta Fantini would be on her way to his apartments, for the agreed assignation. Indeed, she should be here by now. He had cast aside his work for the evening, dismissed his courtiers and now awaited the woman.

  But it seemed she was late. The realization angered him; he was the Duke of Milan. She was a mere courtesan, lovely and desirable though she might be. He would make her pay for her carelessness. The thought of what he might do to her body, by way of penance, made his loins stir again.

  He caught the sound of a muffled cry from the anteroom to his apartment. He hesitated, then with mounting anger he strode towards the door. She had arrived, but some fool of a courtier must be preventing her entrance. He was impatient, the idiot who was intervening in the pursuit of the duke’s pleasures would be made to feel the whip and more. His right hand instinctively grasped the hilt of the poniard that he wore at his belt as thoughts of violence intruded upon his lust.

  He threw open the door.

  The sight that greeted him riveted him to the spot for a moment. He had expected to see the woman, Carlotta – and perhaps a panicked clerk. The room was shadowy and he made out the form of the woman he was expecting, but she was not accompanied by a courtier. Instead he could make out the forms of five men. And no one he recognized as a member of his entourage.

  Two of the strangers in the anteroom were holding her by the arms as she struggled frantically; a third had clasped his hands about her mouth to stifle her anguished cries. His mind registered briefly that her dress was torn, her breast exposed. He also glimpsed the dark stain of blood at her waist. The other two men stared at the duke, frozen, perhaps momentarily confused by Ludovico Sforza’s sudden appearance in the doorway. But their reaction was momentary only. As he stood there, shocked in the open doorway, they were the first to recover. The two men regained their composure and their intentions; they were now rushing towards him. Both men were armed and he saw the glitter of blades as they came for him.

  The Duke of Milan was physically strong and no coward, and he had many times distinguished himself in battles. Moreover, he was a man of headstrong capabilities and the sight of the men rushing at him, and that of the woman struggling for her freedom and, perhaps his life, brought a black rage upon him.

  He roared a curse and rather than retreat from their attack he flung himself upon his assailants, holding aloft his own poniard as he did so. They were astonished; they had probably expected that he would try to flee back into his chambers and the sudden eruption of his attack caught them at a disadvantage. His blade flickered in the dim light as he slashed the throat of the nearest man in one swift movement. The blade sliced home and the mortally injured assassin, choking on his own blood, staggered sideways into his companion, knocking him off balance. Then almost in the same movement the duke was thrusting at his second assailant. The man threw up an arm to protect his throat and slashed wildly, driving his own blade at the duke, but Sforza was an accomplished fighter; he sidestepped the assassin’s blade and his own knife plunged into the man’s exposed stomach.

  The duke’s blood was up, he was roaring in violent rage. He was shouting loudly and it seemed to unnerve the three men holding Carlotta Fantini. He – and they – knew that in a matter of moments the alarm would be raised and his personal guards would storm into the room. But in the meantime he was rushing upon them in his blood-spattered clothing and the men scattered, whirling the courtesan across the room, away from them a
nd the enraged ruler of Milan. She collided with a small table, and collapsed in a half-fainting fit to the floor. The duke threw himself forward in mad blood lust.

  Sforza did not know how these men would have gained entrance to his apartments. He knew there must have been bribery involved and even in his blind rage, he swore that in due course he would find out who had betrayed him and the culprits would pay with their lives. He doubted that Carlotta herself would have been involved, for she was injured and still sprawled in a swoon on the floor but as he dashed forward he realized that though the swift turn of events might have caught the assassins off balance, they were still dangerous and intent upon assassination. One man stood over Carlotta Fantini, as though uncertain what to do; he was out of the immediate range of the duke’s fury. But the other two were half-crouched, blades at the ready as he rushed upon them. It would be an uneven struggle but Ludovico Sforza had no thought for the danger he was in; he was beside himself, and his wild advance seemed to alarm his assailants momentarily. But even as he threw himself upon the taller of the two assassins, he became aware of a violent hammering at the door, and moments later it burst open. Immediately the situation had changed.

  Now, the guards were rushing in and the three assassins sought frantically to escape the trap they had created for themselves.

  The skirmish was brief. Sword blades glittered in the pale, flickering candlelight; two of the assailants had been cornered, but the third, giving up all thoughts of assassination, had rushed past Sforza and dashed into the bedchamber, slamming the door shut behind him. The Duke of Milan hesitated, thought about pursuit and then glanced at the courtesan he had been expecting to enliven his evening. He waved to the guards, ordered them to corner the remaining assassin – the other two were already bleeding out their lives on the floor of the anteroom – and he bent over Carlotta, raising her from the floor where she was still half-conscious. Her wound was not serious, but the sight of her blood inflamed his passions even further.

  He laid her down. The guards had already put two of the assassins to the sword, though one clearly still lived, but the duke wanted to corner the last man, to question him, on the rack and under the hot iron.

  Sforza turned and raged back to his bedchamber, poniard in hand. The door held against him but he stormed at it with his shoulder; three blows and it gave way and he roared into the chamber, seeking the final assassin with his guards at his back.

  The room was empty. A curtain lifted in the night breeze. The window was open and as Sforza leaned out he could see the red-tiled roofs of the palace stretching below him. After a moment, as his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he was able to make out a dark figure frantically scrambling across the tiles, about to drop into the courtyard below.

  Lodovico Sforza bellowed to his guards. The man must be hunted down. He and his brother assassins had obtained entry to the ducal apartments. Lodovico Sforza must discover who had been bribed, who had allowed them entry, who had backed them with gold to attack the Duke of Milan. He needed to know who, among his many enemies, had launched this attack.

  He called for two of the guards to bring the unconscious Carlotta to his bed. He looked at her carefully as she lay there. She was indeed beautiful, and the wound was superficial. There would be another day … or why not tonight? He leaned over her; her eyelids fluttered, she had magnificent eyes, and she managed a weak smile. A magnificent woman… .

  He himself was unhurt. The attempted assassination had failed. The Duke of Milan had triumphed and heads would roll – after the rack and other implements had played their part on the bodies of the culprits who remained alive.

  Sforza took a deep breath, his anger receding as the adrenalin of triumph swept through his veins. He turned then, as he looked about him, some of that surge of triumph receded. He stared at the night table beside the bed, the damasked wall where his prized possession had hung. The wall and table had been swept clean.

  One of the assassins had fled rather than fought, but he had not left empty-handed as he jumped from the window to the tiles.

  And the Eagle had been taken.

  The Duke of Milan clenched his fist. The two men apprehended by his guards would be racked, even though already dying, and they would feel the heat of the irons before they talked. And as for the fugitive who had escaped over the tiles … there would be no part of Italy that he would be able to hide. The manhunt would begin this night.

  Meanwhile, Carlotta Fantini lay there, weak, surrendered, unable to resist. The duke strode to the door, flung it open, bawled for his guards and issued his orders. They would seek the fugitive. They would find the last assassin. They would bring him to the duke, for the iron and the rack. And they would recover the Eagle.

  But while they began their search of Padua he needed to slake the fury and the heat in his loins.

  Carlotta Fantini would not resist.

  And the blood staining her dress served only to stimulate his desire… .

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paul Gilbert completed the photographing of the statuary that had caught his interest about five o’clock in the afternoon. He spent the next half hour gathering up his equipment before taking one more look around the museum at Chesters Fort. He pondered for a while over the ancient commemorative stone that proclaimed the pride felt by the men of the Tenth Legion at their completion of fifteen more paces of the Wall, and he thought again of the men who had travelled the length of the Roman Empire to work and fight on these northern hills. Men of Tuscany and Syria, Egypt and North Africa. He inspected once more the Mithraic stone, symbol of the Roman army’s personal god that had probably come from Brocolita, and he considered returning to add some shots to his collection but finally decided against the idea. He had enough material from Chesters; tomorrow he’d move on to the site at Housesteads where a replica of the Roman fort had been erected and where considerable archaeological investigation was still continuing. He would also take the opportunity to walk a section of the Wall itself and look out over the windswept hills where centuries ago, the barbarians had threatened the northern limits of the Roman empire.

  Outside the museum the day was warm. The breeze had dropped and as he walked past the remains of the Roman commandant’s house, the low wall of the barracks and the bath house, he traversed the ancient latrines and looked out across the slopes to the river. He reflected how all this peace would be far divorced from the ancient reality of the blood, the howl of the icy northern winds, the screaming of dark savages as they attempted to storm the milecastles that held them back from the rich lands to the south. He would write about such thoughts in his next book of illustrated essays.

  Gilbert turned away and walked towards the car park. He carefully packed his photographic equipment into the boot of his four wheel drive – useful for investigating along the muddy tracks in the Cumbrian hills – and drove the short distance to The George Hotel at Chollerford. He hesitated, then thoughtfully unpacked all his gear and when the porter appeared, they together carried it all up to his room; he was a cautious man and the equipment had cost him a great deal of money.

  After a shower he felt refreshed; he looked at himself in the mirror as he towelled himself down. He was still slim at forty, his fair hair was thinning a little at the crown but he was still presentable, he considered; clear eyes, good profile, only a hint of sagging at his jowls. Naked, he wandered out of the bathroom to the window and looked out over the terrace and the river bridge. He knotted the towel around his waist.

  That was when he saw her.

  She was standing in the gardens, quite alone, staring out towards the river bridge. She was tall, slimly built, long-legged, and she stood there with a casual, unaffected grace, one hand resting on the stone wall, almost as if she was posing for a portrait. Even from here he could see that her skin was tanned, her hair black, cut short to the graceful line of her neck. The thin red sweater she wore exposed her upper arms and was low cut to the swell of her bosom. He could not make out her featu
res since she was half turned away from him, and she wore dark glasses, but he had no doubt that she was a beautiful woman.

  Paul stood watching her for several minutes as his body dried under the towel. Unaware of his attention the woman stretched her arms, removed her sunglasses, looked up at the late afternoon sky, then strolled along the path out of his line of sight.

  He sighed. After she had disappeared he regretted he had not had the presence of mind to reach for his camera, getting a shot not so much for his book but merely for his own pleasure. There had been something about her that had stirred him. He had not been in a relationship for some time now, travelling about the north as he had been, and the woman had a grace about her that reminded him of a panther, wild, free, untamed. He chewed at his lip, slightly annoyed with himself and then almost as though she had divined what he had in mind, she came back into his view. She had removed her dark glasses, and she held them in her left hand. As she paused again beside the stone bridge, above the gleam of the rushing river, Paul turned away, grabbed up his camera, clipped on the telephoto lens and waited until she paced a little nearer to his window.

  He took several shots as she stood there; they would be good since almost unconsciously she moved like a professional model, seemed almost to take the kind of classical poses that magazine editors loved, but there was an underlining voluptuousness to her body that was unlike the cold distance affected by the women he had used as models in his earlier days.

  He wondered what she would look like undressed.

  She finally moved away from the bridge and he noted she was taking the road towards the hotel. She moved out of his vision. He felt a vague excitement in his chest. He would be having dinner at the hotel. There was the chance she might be there … possibly alone. Paul Gilbert walked to the small refrigerator in his room, took out a miniature bottle of whiskey and poured it into a glass. He cast aside the towel, sat in the easy chair and sipped at the drink, still thinking of the woman he had seen at the bridge. He observed his lower body with interest; the memory of her had an effect that did not surprise him. He had always been a sensual man.