It had been raining last night, so the streets were muddy and slippery, but, after months of threading her way through them she learned how to watch her steps, especially when running from peelers or drunken ramblers.
Still, stepping into the sunlight, in the middle of the crowded free trade zone, the former Marquise d'Albon and Baroness de Valois sighed and tied her handkercher, hiding her strawberry blond locks, while catching a glimpse of the busy merchants and hurried Parisians.
With her the mud starting to dry on her hackneyed skirts and while trying to make herself inconspicuous, she managed to escape observation and get lost in the crowd, where her thin body helped her percolate through hurried citizens and her quick-moving, slender fingers instinctively guided her to the money bags.
The coins' jingle induced her a provocative laughter that managed to surprise even Isabelle for a moment. Then the realisation hit her: she wasn't afraid anymore. Nothing managed to frighten her, not even the thought that her soul will burn in Hell for eternity under the oppressive burden of her sins. As a matter of fact, what was fear? A fool's emotion as were love and pride. Only honest people allowed themselves to feel fear. Fear that made them quiver under their blankets and in their beds the moment they heard Paris' paupers, thieves and beggars following close under their houses' windows during the night, on their way to Cimetière des Saints-Innocents or even Cour des Miracles.
Suddenly, someone's outcry triggered the madness and all at once the people took alarm and all the pickpockets that were present on Pont Neuf that late morning had to take wings in order to escape from the peelers that were on the way.
What Isabelle realized a moment too late was that the one who triggered the whole event was her. While trying to cut a nobleman's bag, an egg woman saw her and alerted everyone. What was even worse was that the exact same noble whose bag she was trying to steal was now sorely squeezing her wrist. And then she realized she was caught and she was suddenly hit by a vertiginous wave of fear. In a moment she was unconscious in his arms, unaware of the hustle she caused.
The first thing she took notice of the moment she opened her eyes was the silk bedding and for a moment she allowed herself to believe that the past two years were only a nightmare and that she was still the Marquise d'Albon.
But them she recognized his deep, green glance and she was afraid again. There he was, by her bed, taking a good look at her. The fact that she no longer had her dress on her only made Isabelle even more embarrassed so she tried to hide her body under the covers, while hoping that everything was just a new nightmare that she will wake up from. Ignoring her embarrassment and the unusual circumstances they both found themselves into, the man got up from his chair and executed a a profound reverence in front of her, introducing himself: Cardinal Cesare Borgia, Duc de Valentinois.
Isabelle couldn't turn whiter and in an instant she became insensible again.
The second time she woke up the room was dark, but the cool night's wind helped her come to herself. A handmaid quickly took notice of that and drew near her, offering her a glass of something that radiated a pungent scent. Isabelle accepted it and drank the unpleasant liquid anyway, because she felt her throat sore and her lips burned. Then the older woman said something in Italian and left the room, leaving her alone again.
But this time Isabelle wasn't going to wait for the Cardinal to be back. She thought about her daughter that was probably starved and scared, crying for her mother somewhere in the cradle. She got up from the bed and started to fumble for her clothes in the darkness, without any success unfortunately. She even considered escaping through the open window, but she quickly abandoned that intention when she realized her room was somewhere on the second floor, probably outside Paris. Finally she gave up and returned to bed, where she decided to wait for her abductor's return. She would apologize and explain her situation and maybe then he will allow her to get back to her daughter.
The next day, around midday, when Isabelle was starting to think that the Cardinal probably abandoned her, locked into the room, he walked into her room and, after executing another unnecessary courtesy, he took off his mantle and gently laid her child into her arms. Unable to hold back her tears anymore, she burst out crying, hugging and kissing her daughter while trying to find her words to thank him.
After making sure her daughter was fed and clean, she laid her child to sleep, put on a clean dress the maid offered her accepted the Cardinal's invitation to have dinner with him.
Intoxicated with the sweet French wine and ravishing luxury of his residence, Isabelle found herself studying the young Italian's features. He was around 26 or 27, not even 30 yet, with dark-brown, almost back, wavy hair and cold, arrogant, green eyes that still frightened her, while also sending pleasant shivers trough her entire body. His gestures were calculated, but the cruelty she could read in his eyes made him a very unusual cleric.
That night, under the wine's flavour, he told her about his life. About his father, the corrupted Pope and his mother, the Pope's lover. And while he related all those things to her, she let herself be caught into his spell and became his mistress.
One week later, Isabelle became Isabella, while accompanying her Cardinal back to Rome.
Many years later, when Isabelle will have time to give thought to that period of her life, the two years she spent among the faith's disowned, she will often whisper to herself that she must have been insane back then.
In fact, it was the exact same insanity that made her survive in that awful world. And even if it may not have been insanity, it felt like a torpor that took hold of her senses, more like an primal need to live through everything.
