“A long ride for the hottest part of summer.” The sun had slammed down like a hammer on Rome with the advent of July, sending long shimmering bars of summer light cutting palpably across the streets, making the gutters steam. Everyone sensible stayed inside under the shaded loggia with cups of chilled wine or lemon water. “What brings you here?” I asked. “Husband?”

He looked down at the straw, twisting his horse’s reins between his fingers. “My mother sent for me. She thinks with the Pope to die so soon, I should be here—important things happening, it could be very advantageous for me—”

I felt a wave of hot rage at that. His mother summoned him, did she? A letter from Mamma had him hop-hop-hopping all the way from Carbognano? I stroked my mare’s sleek shoulder, blindly, realizing that all the stable boys were eavesdropping by now. Of course they were—the exiled husband come face to face with his straying wife; that was entertainment on a level with any bearbaiting or bullfight. Who wouldn’t eavesdrop?

I tilted my head at the boy raking the same pile of straw over and over by the hayloft, the two grooms who had decided the stall right next to Orsino needed immediate cleaning, the four other grooms fiddling with needless bits of harness or bags of grain. “Leave us.”

They filed out with evident disappointment.

“They all think I’m Cardinal Borgia’s mistress.” I met my husband’s eyes. “Of course, everyone in Rome is starting to think that by now. People stare when they see me at Mass; you know that? They snicker behind their prayer books and they think I can’t hear them. Thank the Holy Virgin my brother Sandro is off in Perugia again this past month, or he’d be coming to the door with a rapier in hand. Like a brother should.”

Orsino avoided my gaze, leading his tired gelding past me into one of the empty stalls.

“Of course, I’d have thought my husband would be the one coming to the door with a rapier,” I continued, “when it comes to defending my honor.”

He began unfastening his horse’s girth. “I’m not supposed to see you,” he mumbled, concentrating on the buckles. “Mother said I’m not to stay here—just stable my horse, and then I’m off to stay with some cousins, so I don’t—”

“So you don’t even lay eyes on me?” I led my mare into the stall beside Orsino. “I’m your wife.”

“Not really. Not the way it was arranged, it was very—” His eyes flicked up at me over his gelding’s back. He had beautiful eyes, really—I’d been so pleased at our wedding when I saw what a clear blue they were, with that slight natural squint that gave him such a look of shyness. “It was different, once I saw you. I wouldn’t have—”