Chapter 36 – In which a wicked game was played

Duchess Renee and her husband invited me to travel their lands with them, and I readily agreed. It was unusually warm for the beginning of February when we rode out to a country house owned by the d'Estes. Country house, I say, but really it was more like a small palace on its own, and one of the most beautiful locations I had ever seen. Truly, I don't mean to belittle England in any way, but the Italians were far ahead of us in style and comfort. I had already taken to wearing the fabulously colourful Renaissance dresses the Italian women were famous for, and now I almost found myself wishing I would marry Francesco just to stay here.

Almost. Of course, this wasn't what I had come for. This was only a short, beautiful distraction from my true path… just like George. Whenever we exchanged glances during our journey, I told myself just that. It was lovely… but just a fantasy. It could never be true, would only stand in my way. And in his. Had I saved his life just to have him beheaded for desiring the King's daughter?

"Are you unwell, Your Highness?"

It was Ferrante who pulled me from my thoughts. He had come along, just like his mother and her unsettling little black slaves. Francesco, of course, had also come, which was unsurprising given the fact that my chaperone had to come with me. Much to my delight, the Ferrara children had also come, and so I was able to finally get to know Anna and her little siblings. I distinctly remember playing with Anna in the gardens of the country house, chasing her around the fountain. Did I know then that one day, I would broker her marriage? That our paths would be intertwined by fate? I can't tell.

And I will postpone all my rambling thoughts about this matter, for my games with Anna were far from the most important thing that happened there. No, a deadly and wicked game would be played in that country house, and I believe it all began when we were sitting inside one evening.

"No, truly, I did not have to beg the King to give me leave for coming here," I found myself telling Renee in a light mood. "He was unusually susceptible to the idea."

"Even though we were under the impression your royal father was overly protective of his children," her husband informed me. "We were told that once he found out about the obstacles to your marriage, he had it annulled immediately so as to protect you from living in sin. He must love you dearly."

"He does, he does," I replied, suddenly absent-minded. "Such a pitiful story."

Renee nodded. "Indeed, we have heard great stories of heroism about your… well, the Duke was never your husband in the eyes of God, was he?"

"Perhaps you ought to be grateful, Your Highness. Military men are never faithful," Dowager Marquise Isabella suddenly barked. All our eyes wandered to her. "Tell me, even though it turned out not to have been a true marriage, did he stay true to you?"

"Mother," Ferrante interrupted her hastily. "This is hardly an appropriate topic for such an occasion."

The old lady raised one of her eyebrows. "Well, why not? If the Princess feels uncomfortable answering, I am sure she would let me know. She's not one of those dainty Italian damsels you are so fond of, son."

"Aunt Isabella, I must insist that you guard your tongue," Duke Ercole added in a much more serious tone. "The Princess Mary is our guest."

"Yes, and she has a tongue and a mind of her own, which is more than can be said about your own wife," Isabella snarled and turned to me. "Tell me, Your Highness, do my questions inconvenience you?"

Now, all of a sudden, all eyes were on me, and I gasped. I really didn't know what to say… something polite? A witty remark? The truth?

"I am… merely not used to Italian curiosity," I tried to calm down the situation. "It is uncommon to speak about private matters in England."

"Ah, there you see, just the strange sensation of novelty," Isabella said triumphantly. "Now, your not-husband, was he a faithful man?"

I looked at her, and then at George, who had become awfully pale. He rose to his feet. Apparently, he was trying to get me out of this situation.

"Dear niece, I don't think we need to…"

"Don't worry, Your Grace," I stopped him from doing whatever he meant to do. "The Lady Isabella has asked me a question, and I will not have it said that I am rude. And we are in Italy, are we not? Things are different here."

I smiled, and God be good, I can't remember whether it was fake or not.

"So to clarify the situation – no, he was not."

Now, everyone gasped. I could see shock in Renee's face, triumphant satisfaction in Isabella's, genuine surprise in Ferrante's – and cold-blooded murder in George's. Somehow, seeing his anger made me talk more.

"Though, as you yourself said, it was hardly to be expected from a military man like him. It was a political match in any case," I said in the most casual voice I could muster, refilling my cup while everyone was staring at me.

Isabella seemed intrigued. "And you, as a true-blooded princess, did nothing to stop his ways?"

"What should I have done? It is a man's right to do as he wishes, and we women are only bound to obey and serve."

"He swore an oath of fidelity," Isabella returned, and from the harshness in her voice I suspected we were no longer talking about me.

"Well, I was under the impression such things were taken lightly these days, especially here in Italy," I continued, trying to see whether I could make her snap. Something truly wicked had taken possession of me. "And with so many beautiful women around, who could fault your men? It is only natural, after all."

"Natural?!" Isabella's voice was as loud as thunder. Her cup fell to the ground and spilled all her wine on the floor. "It is an abominable sin to betray those that you are supposed to love, and any woman who throws herself at a married man is no better than a whore! She's worse, she's Jezebel!"

"You are forgetting yourself, Aunt Isabella," Duke Ercole strongly reprimanded her.

"No, you are forgetting yourself. How dare you speak to me like that, you half-bred son of the devil's whore?"

With these words, her head crimson red like the spilled wine, she rushed out of the room. We all watched her go in silent shock, until Ferrante cleared his throat.

"Please forgive my mother, cousin. She is not feeling well as of lately, and speaks of things that she should not," he said.

The Duke shook his head. "It is not your fault, Ferrante. For the love she bore my father, I shall endure your mother's antics, but I implore you to speak to her. I cannot allow this… tension to fester like an uncured ulcer. Our family must stand united."

"I'll speak to her later," Ferrante promised.

A sudden noise startled us all, and it took me a second to realize this atonal cascade was little Anna d'Este running through the room, slamming her fingers on the keys of the cembalo.

Her parents were not amused. "Anna!"

"I didn't like the yelling, I'm sorry, papa," the little girl said.

"Apologize to our guests for making such noises," the Duke replied sternly.

The young lady came to me and curtseyed. "I am sorry, Your Highness."

"No offense taken," I assured her smiling.

"Well, perhaps the little lady is not so wrong after all," Ferrante chimed in. "A little music could do wonders for all of us. Lift our spirits."

"A lovely idea. Princess Mary, is it not true that you excel at music," Renee asked.

And again – all eyes on me. Why did they have to do that? It made me feel so uncomfortable.

"I am… quite adept, though I consider it my duty to inform you that it has been years since I last used a keyboard instrument."

Suddenly, Francesco seemed to have woken up. "Oh, I am sure you are superb."

I faked a smile and rose. "If your lordship says so, then it must be true… and if you all insist, what guest would I be to deny my hosts such a small favour? Well, then… what would you have me play?"

As I made my way to the cembalo, a moment of eerie silence was followed by a hasty exclamation.

"A love song, perhaps," Francesco suggested.

I looked at him knowing that he was only playing his part, and that indeed, his suggestion was not meant to charm me. Not me.

"Splendid," Renee agreed, clapping her hands. "But not these modern superficial tunes. Something with substance, something that touches the soul."

"Then it must be a sad song," Ferrante concluded. "For only in tragedy greatness can be achieved. Only sorrow has inspired the greatest works of art."

George cleared his throat. "Why not a song about impossible love?"

My eyes met his. For a moment, I felt the world had ended, and that everyone was seeing right through me. But I couldn't lose my face. Not here, not now. I would do as I was bid and keep the show going. Trying to remember all the songs Mary had been taught in her youth, I came upon one or two which fit the description. But then my eyes met those of George again, and the emotions hit close to home. What they wanted to hear was almost exactly what he and I both felt, and if I was to speak from within my heart, I couldn't use references to old myths and legends. Even after having lived in Tudor times for many years now, my heart would still express itself in a modern way. If I had to sing, I would sing a song from my own youth.

"I know such a song as you wish, but I am afraid it can only be sung in English," I told them.

"Ah, it matters not, Princess, we shall hear your voice nonetheless," Renee assured me.

And Ferrante added grinning: "Some of us might even understand a word or two."

I accepted their words for what they were and lowered my gaze towards the keys. A story about sad, impossible love they wanted to hear, a story about sad love they would get. I hit a key to find the right tonality and began. Not once would I dare to look at anyone, least of all George, but I could feel his gaze burning right through me.

"The world was on fire and no one could save me but you. It's strange what desire will make foolish people do. I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you, and I never dreamed that I'd know somebody like you. And I don't want to fall in love, no I don't want to fall in love… with you. What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you. What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way. What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you. No, I don't want to fall in love, no I don't want to fall in love… with you. The world was on fire and no one could save me but you. It's strange what desire will make foolish people do. I never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you, and I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you. Nobody loves no one…"

Silence. I dared not raise my sight for fear what I would see in their faces. Had I given myself away? But then Renee clapped, and so did her husband, and then Ferrante and everyone else joined in.

"Brava, Your Highness, brava," Ferrante praised me. "Such a sweet voice, one almost feels surrounded by a choir of angels. Though, if you don't mind, I also know a tune or two, and would like to compete with you. That is, if you can take a little competition?"

I smiled, truly and honestly relieved that he had gotten me out of this situation. "Of course, Lord Ferrante. I am always willing to bow to my betters."

"Ah," he returned laughing as we switched seats. "Putting no pressure on me at all. You are playing wicked, Your Highness. But don't think I might not have an ace or two up my sleeves. So, family, what do you want to hear? Another love song?"

"Something more jolly this time," Duke Ercole requested. "All this melancholy is no good for my bowels."

Ferrante did as he was bid, and truth be told, he was a fantastic player. Despite all the weirdness of the night, it turned out to be a decent party, and in the end, I felt genuinely happy and a little tipsy as well. Just the right mood to be foolish.

George's room was warmly lit by a fire and some candles when I entered. Unlike my rooms, which were guarded at night even in this country house, George was in no need of any chaperone. So, since I didn't knock, I was able to make it to his bedroom without making my presence known. I found him standing, on arm placed upon the mantelpiece, a cup of red wine in his hand. He wore nothing more than his breeches and his white linen undershirt, and foolish girl that I was, I considered it an invitation.

"Deep into thoughts, Your Grace?"

George almost dropped his cup as he turned around. "For God's sake, Mary! You've scared me to death."

"You, scared?" My voice was teasing as I drew closer. "Not the hero George Boleyn, hammer of the Turks. You wouldn't be scared by a mere woman."

"Well, if she comes into my rooms unexpected, late at night…"

The way he looked at me had softened, and he too drew closer, so I turned around again and changed my voice.

"You need to speak to Francesco."

He grumbled. "I know."

"His ambitions are becoming obvious. And if I can see them, others will soon see them too," I warned him, but then grinned as I took the cup which he had placed on a table. I took a little sip. "Well, we shall soon see how open-minded these Italians truly are, I guess."

"Would you stop acting like that," George hissed, rushing towards me and taking away the cup. "It is quite unbecoming."

I breathed in his scent and watched the many strange emotions in his face. The shadows and lights from the fireplace danced upon it, chasing each other.

"I… I sang the song for you," I suddenly stammered.

"Aye, and every word you said was rather fitting," he replied angrily. "It is a wicked game you're playing with me, Your Highness. You should go now."

"Would you kiss me? If I asked you now, would you?"

He frowned. "Why… why do you ask?"

"Because I need to know. If I asked you, would you do it?"

"I would," George exhaled, sounding as if his own answer didn't please him. "I'm a foolish man, I thought that was sufficiently established."

"Then kiss me."

To this very day, I am still surprised he obeyed me without even another blink of an eye. He rushed forward, and in the dancing shadows of the candlelit room, the gap between us was closed. I felt my blood lit on fire.

"This is wicked indeed," George gasped between two kisses. "You shouldn't be here."

Breathing heavily, I nodded. "I know. I don't want to be here. Everything I sang was true, I don't want to fall in love… but… but nobody loves no one, George. I'm not made from stone."

"But you can't have this, this is… madness. You can't always get what you want."

"Maybe sometimes I can get what I need," I whispered back, slowly guiding his hand to one of the many strings holding together my elaborate dress.

"You… should go…" He whispered back with as many resilience as he could muster. Then he pushed me against the wall.

"I don't want to go." I should not have said that. My punishment for such folly was immediate and harsh. "Oh God."

"Yes," George gasped, not knowing that my exclamation wasn't a sign of excitement.

I had seen a shadow moving towards us, but there was nothing I could do before it was too late.

"Oh my God," another voice loudly interrupted. "How could you!"

George and I let go as if we were magnets pulled away from each other, and with pounding hearts we stared into the shocked face of Francesco.

"How could you… why would you… she's your niece!"

George ventured towards him, trying to put on a calming appearance. "Francesco, you must let me explain…"

"No, no, no," Francesco returned shaking his head vigorously. "This cannot be true. You… you had her sing a song for me, for us… and then you kiss her? She's your niece!"

"Well, only by law," George returned.

Being cheeky apparently hadn't been the correct choice for this situation.

"How could you do this to me? I thought we… you called me here to speak… why do you show me this…. It was you," he concluded, now staring at me. "You… lying… whore."

George's smile faded. "Don't speak to her like that." He put himself between Francesco and me.

"You lied to me, to everyone! And you, you lied to me too," he now accused George again. "You led me on when all you wanted was some secret time away from court to fornicate with your own niece!"

"Stop speaking like that," George insisted.

"No!" Francesco was yelling now, and a second later, he had already begun pushing George back. His hands were faster than my heartbeat. "You liar!"

George stumbled backward, and in horror, I watched Francesco flee as he realized that his presumed lover was bleeding. He ran away with terror in his face while George dropped to the ground.

"Oh my God," I found myself exhaling as I sank to my feet. "Your face…"

"It's nothing, it's…" George couldn't continue his vain attempt to calm me down, for a sudden urge to vomit must have rushed through him and forced him to throw up right beside his own bed. I tried to touch him, to comfort him, to see how badly he was hurt, but he pushed me away. "Go."

"George, please, you must let me see…"

He wiped away blood and vomit from his face and shook his head.

"Go. Find Francesco. You can't let him run away like this."

"No, I need to stay with you, you're bleeding!"

"Yes, and my nose is much likely broken," he now yelled at me and turned around. "But if you don't follow that raging imbecile, God only knows who he will tell whatever he wants! I won't allow him to hurt you with his careless words, so for the love of God, find him and stop him!"

He looked terrible, but more determined than ever before. And he was right. If Francesco in his malice decided to spread the word of what he had seen… I nodded, and turned around, and began to run. Too many thoughts were swirling in my head, far too many to ever be put into words. I hardly remember any of them, though I can imagine what they must have been like. Still, I didn't have much time to scold myself, for I found Francesco in his room yelling and disassembling his furniture.

"Francesco," I addressed him hastily.

"You!" He practically yelled, and put down the vase he had been wanting to throw. "You dare show your face to me, here? You lying whore!"

"Francesco, there is no need for such vile accusations. I can understand your anger, but you must accept the truth."

His face distorted. "The truth? What truth? That I was led on? That the hero of Venice is but a lying manipulator who fucks his own niece?"

"We were not… what you saw was nothing of the sort." I blushed.

"And if I had come half an hour later? What then?"

His question hit me harder than I wanted to admit, so I tried to change the topic. "Francesco, please, none of this was ever meant to hurt you. He wanted to tell you, believe me. You deluded yourself into thinking there was something between you when in truth, there never was. He never loved you."

"Oh, but he loves you, yes? His own fucking niece?" Francesco all but spit out these words, coming dangerously close to me. "Whore. Wanton. Jezebel. You are not the pious angel everyone thinks you are, you are nothing but a depraved slut!"

A resolute yet scratchy female voice interrupted us. "What in Christ's name is going on here?" We both turned around in surprise to see Marquise Isabella standing in the door. She was dressed in her nightgown, a cap neatly placed on her thinning hair, but the way she leant on her walking cane made her seem intimidating nonetheless. "Francesco, have you completely lost your mind now? Let go off the Princess, she is our guest."

"Our guest? She is nothing but a liar," he spat.

"You are forgetting yourself, boy. Again. She is a princess of royal blood, which is much more than can be said for you. Now go to bed, you are clearly drunk and it is quite unbecoming to have a lady in your rooms at such a time of the day."

He laughed darkly and turned away from me to face her. "Unbecoming? Unbecoming?! Do you know what is unbecoming, auntie? She is!" He pointed towards me. "That wicked wench is fornicating with her own uncle in our halls! She is nothing but a common harlot!"

I wanted to strangle him for his words, but before I could act, Isabella already had.

She smiled. "Then perhaps I was mistaken, and she is the right woman for you after all… seeing that your own mother was nothing but a strumpet."

"How dare you!" Francesco roared and leapt towards her, grabbing the frail woman by the shoulders and pushing her against the wall. "You won't speak of my mother like that, never again! Do you hear me? Never again!"

I heard her gargle, and saw the way he was closing his hands around her neck in his rage. In a desperate attempt to stop him, I stumble towards Francesco and tried to pull him away.

"Stop it!"

He didn't hear me. "You won't tell me what to do, you mischievous old hag! Never again!"

I saw death drawing closer in Isabella's fear-stained eyes, and I completely forget how unsettling I had considered her. This wasn't about favours and dislikes anymore, or about reason, for that matter. It was pure instinct. At least that is the only way I can explain to myself why I reacted the way I did: I bit Francesco. Like a lioness I drove my teeth into his arm until I felt the strange metallic sensation of blood in my mouth, and he let go off his aunt with an angry yowl.

We both fell to the floor, as did Isabella. My heart beating like it was about to explode in my chest, I slowly wiped away the blood from my lips.

"What have you done…" I whispered, and didn't know whether I was asking Francesco or myself.

"What have you done," another, much stronger voice echoed.

I looked up to find Ferrante standing in the door, his eyes gliding over the horrible scene in this room like an eagle. He bowed over the body of his mother.

"I… She… I didn't… Is she…" Francesco stammered.

"Dead? Yes, she is dead, for God's sake," Ferrante yelled at him. "So I'll ask you one last time, cousin: what have you done?"

Francesco flinched, no longer as angry as he had been but rather completely wrapped up in shock. "I… I didn't… it was her fault!" He pointed at me. "She's fornicating with her own uncle!"

Ferrante rose to his feet in the speed of a madman. "And if she was fornicating with the whole legatine court – I wouldn't care! This is my mother, Francesco, and she is dead! You have killed her!"

"I didn't mean to…"

"Oh, so that is your excuse? You didn't mean to, but you were what, upset that your bride-to-be might actually like men with balls in their pants?" Ferrante grabbed his cousin by the collar and pulled him to his feet again. "You murdered your own kin!"

Francesco whimpered. "I know, I…"

Ferrante let go off him, and turned around, pulling his fingers through his hair. Many years later, I would know this was his usual gesture when he was thinking really hard, but back then, of course I had no clue. I just sat there on the floor, still shocked by what had happened.

"You'll help me carry her," Ferrante suddenly told his cousin. "And you, Your Highness, must lead the way. She must not be found here, under any circumstances."

I don't know how I picked myself up, or whether it was just his convincing tone that made me obey. With a beating heart I led them through the hallways, these two men carrying the dead body of their own kinswoman. I tried very hard not to think about the awful situation I had manoeuvred myself into. Having reached Isabella's room, we carefully placed her in her bed and put the blankets over her.

"I'll find a doctor who won't ask too many questions," Ferrante said, rather to himself. "And you will never speak about anything that transpired tonight. Never. Do you understand me?"

Francesco, who had seemed rather absent-minded, now looked at his cousin, and the flames of anger returned to his eyes.

"But she… I found her with her own uncle…"

Ferrante, too, was angry now. "Yes, and if you told anyone, it would cause a nice little scandal. One that you would not be able to witness, because you would be HANGED! You killed my mother! And if you don't want this scandal to rip our family apart, and to cost you your head, you will keep that foolish mouth of yours shut forever! Do you get me now?"

Francesco stared at him in shock, but his cousin wouldn't desist.

"Say it."

"I… I will never speak about this night again."

"Good. I'll make sure you'll die an agonizing death if you ever forget that promise," Ferrante hissed. "Now go back to bed and try to appear clueless on the morrow. God knows, you had better stay away for good, seeing how awfully bad you are at hiding your feelings. Go now."

Francesco trotted away like a beaten dog, but I felt no sympathy. All the time I had been staring at the lifeless body of Isabella, unable to form a clear thought. Now, however, I realized I was alone with Ferrante, and I felt the urge to say something.

"I believe I owe you thanks, my Lord."

"Oh, you owe me much more than that," he returned darkly, but then smiled suddenly. "But lucky for you, I think you will soon get the chance to repay me. I hear your father's court has lacked an Italian ambassador for some time, and after all these painful memories…" He looked towards his mother's corpse. "… I think I could use a change of place."

I gulped, but accepted. It was a reasonable price for saving my ass. "I will most certainly point out your talents to the King once I return. I am sure he will want to foster the good relationships between England and the Italian states."

"Wonderful," Ferrante said cheerfully, as if his mother hadn't just been killed. "Then you, too, should return, and perhaps to your own rooms and not to anyone else's."

The insinuation was clear, and I nodded. "Good night, my lord."

"Good night, Your Highness. Oh, and Princess? I expect you will also never speak to any mortal soul about the events of this night… or am I mistaken?"

"No," I shook my head. "Your lordship is absolutely right. Nothing happened tonight."