An “older man.”
How much older? Eighteen? Twenty-eight?
By today’s standards, my mother would be considered jailbait. But Iswallowed my judgment and kept reading.
June 2, 1556
Tomaso and I rushed to the Pietro Costa party, energized by our desire for one another. He eyed me hungrily and let out a low growl that made me laugh. I pushed him away playfully. As we entered the masquerade, I felt his intensity growing until suddenly, he gestured for me to follow him. We left the festivities behind, and I asked in amusement why he’d brought me to such a smelly barn.
“We are going to christen it with our love,” he replied before crashing his mouth against mine so ferociously that stars appeared behind my eyes.
Before I knew it, Tomaso was inside me, pushing hard against the stone walls of the horse barn as we both moaned with pleasure.
Suddenly, this woman appeared out of the blue. Her hair was wild and messy, her eyes were a strange dark color, and her skin was unnaturally pale. She screeched like a feral cat and brandished a knife in her hand. She lunged forward and drove the weapon into Tomaso’s back while he was still inside me. I shrieked with terror so loudly that people from the party ran over to us. Tomaso lay motionless on the cold ground, surrounded by his blood, but the woman had already disappeared.
As the revelers tended to Tomaso, carrying his limp form out of the barn, I raced outside. There, I saw the woman again in the distance. She watched everyone disappear into Pietro Costa’s house, then ran toward me, wielding her knife. This time, I didn’t scream—I stood my ground, as frightened as I was. I knew she wanted to kill me, too. I prepared to meet my maker and be with Tomaso, who I was sure was dead.
But suddenly, a mysterious man materialized out of thin air, like a ghost, only he was very much alive. He struck down the woman with his dagger, and she transformed into a dry corpse.
I was more intrigued than scared by him. He was mysterious, powerful, and moved with nimble grace like an athlete or dancer. I couldn’t help myself—I kissed him for saving my life. The kiss started as gratitude on my part but turned into a passionate fire. I’d never experienced a man like this—he seemed to burn with fire and lust, and it was all directed at me.
When we disentangled, I stroked my lips with my fingertips, then his. We stared at one another with wonder. At that very moment, I knew I would love him for the rest of my life—no other man would compare.
“Who are you?” he said, fingering my cheek.
“I’m Alina.” I trembled at his touch. “Are you going to kill me, too?”
“No,” he said gently. “She was a bad woman who wanted to harm you. I couldn’t let that happen.”
He placed his warm fingertip beneath my chin and tipped my head to face him. “You and I belong with each other now, my lovely Alina. I’m sorry that woman frightened you. You no longer have to worry about her. She is gone. And, I’m sorry I kissed you so wantonly.”
I just looked at him and shook my head. It was like we both existed in some other time, disconnected from the reality of Italy and the horror that had just occurred.
“I will take care of you from this day,” he said, stroking my cheek.
I nuzzled his finger like a kitten, never wanting to be away from him. In some inexplicable way, I knew he “got me”—that he understood me in a way no one could.It was as if we’d known each other throughout time. I was protected and treasured by this man. And it was so strange since we had just met, but I felt like I’d known him forever.
I lifted my gaze, rubbing my forehead as a sickening realization settled.
She was describing Balthazar.
A wave of nausea twisted my insides, the same gut-churning sensation I had felt aboard the ship in Rome, bracing for battle in Caledonia under Emperor Severus’ ruthless command.
I exhaled sharply and flipped ahead several pages—fast.
I had no desire to read about my mother’s intimate encounters with Balthazar. Some things were better left undiscovered.
July 17, 1561
For the last five years, Balthazar and I have been having an affair in secret. We meet after sunset when no one can see us, our love burning bright in the darkness. His presence lingers in my mind throughout the day. My parents have been pushing for me to marry someone of Italian descent. That’s why I’ve said no to marriage proposals from men I don’t love. Finally, I decided to tell my father the truth about Balthazar. So, after we’d finished dinner and he had a few glasses of mead, I took a deep breath and told him everything.
“Papa,” I said, sitting on the arm of his chair.
“What is it, my sweet?” he said, his happy smile spreading. Papa always got jovial after drinking mead.
“I need to tell you something.”
Papa frowned and sat up. “You’d better not tell me you’ve rejected another suitor. The townsfolk are talking. They’re saying you’re out of control. They’ve seen you with a man, only your mother, and I don’t know who this man is.”
