Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance Read Online Free PDF

happened.”
    “They buried him at night.” I hadn’t meant to speak of it, but in the presence of a man I knew to have been my father’s friend and, I dared to hope, my own, the pain of my loss would not be denied. “In the graveyard at Santa Maria. All in a rush, as though they thought they could hide what had happened to him.”
    Rocco nodded. He reached out a hand as though to console me but let it fall in the air between us. Gently, he said, “Giovanni is with our Lord now. He has left the trials of this world for the eternal joy of paradise.”
    His certainty pricked me, who had none. I envied him at the same time that I resented his acceptance of what I could only question.
    As though understanding the fear such doubts provoked in me, he added, “Your father was a good man at heart. Surely, the blessed Lord will receive him. Besides, he—”
    “Did the bidding of Il Cardinale,” I interjected, “prince of Holy Mother Church, who gave him absolution. So I tell myself. I can only hope that is enough.”
    As for myself, who had killed without the bidding of Il Cardinale, indeed in opposition to his wishes, I could only wonder what price I would pay in the world beyond.
    The glassmaker’s broad chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. “
Cara,
I believe in a loving God, a God who forgives—”
    Mindful of the presence of his son, he stopped there, but I understood. Rocco, too, had his own need for forgiveness. While still a child, little older than his son, he had been pledged to the Dominican Order and had lived as a friar for several years. Only love for a young woman had driven him to leave the Order to marry her and then to care for his son, the child of that love left motherless at birth. For those loving acts, he still could be hunted down, scourged, and branded as a betrayer of his faith, all this by the same men who kept their priestly offices at the same time they kept their mistresses and plotted to advance the children they had by them.
    So much for the state of Holy Mother Church. As to the state of any person’s soul, who could say?
    With a reassuring smile for the boy who could not take his eyes from us, I moved away, pretending interest in a glass vase set in a niche near the far wall. “But I forget myself. I came to discuss business.”
    Rocco glanced at his son and nodded. “Nando, go down to the bakery and get us a nice fresh loaf, all right? Tell Maria I want it warm from the oven, and while you’re there, get yourself a biscotto. ”
    He drew a coin from his pocket and sent it sailing through the air, to be caught by the child who, grinning broadly, took off out of the shop and down the street.
    When we were alone, Rocco opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of wine along with two goblets. Having filled both, he handed one to me.
    “We have a few minutes before he gets back. Tell me, is it true what I hear? Did you—”
    I had dreaded this moment, when I had to admit what I had done and face the possibility that Rocco would turn away from me in disgust. As I had when confronted by Borgia, I spoke in a rush.
    “I did what I had to do. My father was murdered and no one has lifted a hand to bring his killers to justice. It is left for me to do so. But as a woman without power or influence, how could I? I had no choice. Besides,” I added, emboldened as he continued to look at me with deep concern but no sign of abhorrence, “the Spaniard was no innocent. By all repute, he had killed many times.”
    Rocco studied me for a moment before he asked, “Is it justice you seek . . . or vengeance?”
    I understood that the question was critical for him, speaking as it did to the condition of my soul. Yet I was reluctant to confront it.
    “Is there a difference, at least where my father is concerned?”
    Had Rocco remained a Dominican, I believe he would have shown a talent for theological debate. His propensity for it annoyed me at times yet I will not deny that when I was most troubled in my