by Sarah Dunant
‘About which we have made our disapproval most clear—’
Alexander stops, making clear his greater disapproval at the interruption, and the ambassador subsides into silence. There are moments at prayer when he wonders if such clear enjoyment of power might border on the sin of pride. Or vanity. But such doubts do not last long.
‘However, Don Diego, while we are displeased we are nevertheless willing to be reconciled with King Ferrante in Naples, should he make proper overture. Furthermore we do not countenance foreign intervention in the land. The French ambassador knows our thoughts on this. And they have been relayed in the clearest words to his master.’
‘Your Holiness, I am deeply relieved to hear it,’ the little man splutters, though sharp ears might say his voice is not as fulsome as his words.
‘Good. And since you are in town, perhaps you would like to make your presence official. Then we might invite you to join in the celebrations of our daughter’s nuptials. Oh – and send word to your admiral that we will be most pleased to hear from him again. His stories inform and delight us beyond measure.’
CHAPTER 10
The little girl bites her lip to avoid shouting out. Her white teeth shine fiercely against the pomegranate red of the inside of her mouth and her ebony skin. Pinturicchio, who attended yesterday’s rehearsals, already has artistic designs upon her. But she is struggling now. The dress they are squeezing her into is too tight around her chest, and she squirms, unable to breathe properly.
‘Hold still!’ Adriana yells.
The child stops, staring at Lucrezia, who stands with her back to her, a river of embroidered white silk falling down from her shoulders along the ground towards the girl’s feet. It is the most beautiful sight she has ever seen.
‘Right. Now, pick it up. Bend, girl. There, hold it. Yes, two hands. Further apart. This high up. See. Feel the weight of it.’ Adriana’s voice slips between exasperation and irascibility. ‘Remember, this is your job. You hold this train and you walk behind Madonna Lucrezia. At the speed we practised yesterday. No faster, no slower. Don’t look at anything or anybody else. When she stops, you stop. When she walks, you walk. And you never, never let it go. Never. Not until I myself tell you to. You understand?’
The girl’s fingernails are pale at the edges with the ferocity of her grip on the material. She looks up at Adriana’s blotchy face, the white powder eaten away by stress to reveal a forest of broken veins stretching from the trunk of her nose out across her cheeks.
‘Do you understand?’ Adriana throws up her hands in frustration. ‘The child is useless. She’s black enough but completely deaf and dumb. I asked for one that was not a savage.’
‘I think she hears every word, aunt.’ When others flap, Lucrezia finds it easier to be calm. ‘I spoke to her yesterday and her Italian was as good as yours or mine.’
She comes closer, the movement wrapped in a rustle of silk, bends down and rests her own hand lightly over the girl’s. ‘Do you understand what my aunt says?’
The girl nods. Lucrezia’s fingers, naked and pale, give way to a half-glove, looped over her middle finger, the silk stretching over the back of her hand and into the wrist of her gown, its entire surface encrusted with small pearls, as luminous as the black sheen of the girl’s own skin underneath. They both stare, equally entranced at the wonder of the contrast.
The girl looks up. ‘I walk when you walk. I stop when you stop. I hold on to it until she tells me to let it go.’
‘See!’ Lucrezia beams. ‘Perfect. You look most pretty,’ she whispers.
The girl stares. And stares. ‘So do you.’
‘Aah!’ Adriana, if possible, is even more exasperated.
The great room at the top of the palace is a madhouse. It is as if a wandering theatre troupe has billeted itself there, late for a king’s performance of a chivalric spectacle. Except all these players are young women. Dozens and dozens of them from Rome’s great families, to act as maids of honour for the arrival of the bridegroom and the marriage ceremony. By now they are mildly hysterical, chattering and screeching like starlings in the twilight hour. Adriana, in contrast, is a general who has lost control of her troops.
A woman enters the room and whispers something in her ear and she stops, clapping her hands and letting out a great bellow.
‘Silence! Silence!’
The room comes to a standstill amid a hushing and shushing of silk across marble floors.
‘We are ready. The moment is come. Listen. Listen.’ She motions to the open loggia at the end of the room.
They stand listening, and there, in the distance, they hear it: the blast of a trumpet, then the curl of pipes and flutes and drums weaving in behind.
‘They are on the other side of the river. Crossing the Sant’ Angelo Bridge. They will be here within the half-hour.’
Adriana rushes out into the loggia, ducking her head over the open balustrade, then ducking back again, her face lit up, younger suddenly than her years.
‘Oh, the piazza is full already. Oh my. Oh my. Everyone to their places. Ladies. To the end wall in your ranks. I shall tell you when to come forward. Lucrezia, you go out on to the loggia now. But not so as they can see you yet.’
The room clears, the young women scurrying to their places, so the space is empty save for Lucrezia. And her eager little train bearer, who does not budge an inch.
Adriana turns on her. ‘What? What? Didn’t you hear what I said? Get over there with the others.’
The child looks up at Lucrezia, but she does not budge.
Lucrezia nods. ‘What she means is that she wants you to put down the train now.’
The girl, biting her lower lip in a gesture of deep concentration, curtsies, bringing the river of fabric to the ground in a slow movement of such grace that both the women cannot take their eyes off her. Then, head high, she marches like a small soldier to the back of the room.
Adriana, who has the vague sense that she has just been upstaged in some way, shakes her head, then throws her entire attention and anxiety on to her niece.
‘It’s all right, aunt. I can walk myself. I am ready.’
She has been ready for the best part of seven hours. She had woken before dawn without the need of any bell, and lain awake, saying her prayers and asking for guidance in this, the most challenging moment of her life: the first meeting with her husband. By the bed, underneath The Imitation of Christ and The Book of Hours, lies a small, well-thumbed volume of chivalric tales, deemed uplifting enough for girls of her age and class. Within its pages, pure-born princesses, tricked or betrayed by evil half-brothers or usurping kings, fight their way through wild landscapes and grisly combat to find their thrones and their true love. While she has no illusions that that is what is on offer here, she cannot help but feel a little dizzy with all the thrills and frills, the heat of so much attention directed at her.
The day outside her shutters had arrived pristine, perfect: Rome in early summer is a sweet season, blue skies and a sun that kisses rather than crushes. On such a day D’Artu might have married his Ginevara. And for a while at least they would be happy.
She turns to her aunt. ‘How do I look?’
Adriana opens her mouth, closes it again, and then bursts into tears. She too has read her romances. Or perhaps she just has a reason to be upset by arranged marriages.
‘Well, it is too late to do anything about it now,’ Lucrezia says, squeezing her aunt’s hand. She lifts up her arms and the encrusted pearls glimmer in the sun. ‘Oh, my gown feels so heavy.’
‘Wait until you see Juan,’ she says. ‘He’s wearing half a jeweller’s shop.’
Lucrezia smiles at the unexpected wit, gives her a hug, and then walks out on to the loggia. Though she is careful not to show herself yet to the crowd, someone catches a glimpse and a great roar goes up. It has been almost a year since the public celebrations of the Pope’s coronation. Other cities of Italy have great dynastic weddings all the time. Now Rome has its own
royal family. The Pope’s lovely young daughter. Ripe fruit. Free wine. Time for another Borgia party.
The sound of the music is growing closer. The drumbeat registers in her stomach. This is happening to me, here, now, she thinks. I am nearly fourteen years old and I am meeting the man I will marry. Dear, sweet Jesus, let him like me. Let me love him. With Your help I can do it. She tries to take hold of the feeling, still it, freeze it, pickle it, preserve it in some manner so that she can return to it at will, whatever happens from here on.
Below, the atmosphere is carnival rather than procession: this colourful knot of squires, knights, page boys and musicians attended by fools and jesters turning cartwheels, or gibbering and playing with the crowds, one decked out as a priest offering blessings to anyone and everyone. And in the middle somewhere, the bridegroom.
As the first drummers and flag wavers enter the little piazza in front of the palace, Lucrezia moves forward to the balustrade and every head goes up to look at her. For many it is the first sight they have had of her, this tender young woman emblazoned in silk and pearls, her virgin long hair under a jewelled net falling on to her shoulders. And they are, of course, enthralled. The Pope adores her, it is said. And why not? At this moment she is everyone’s daughter. The new blossom on the tree. The spring that promises a great harvest. The kiss of romance. The thrust of lust. Rome is hungry for it all. God preserve the family that brings them so much theatre.
The main group of horsemen moves into the square, then peels away to leave one horse and one rider.
He spurs his mount in a slow trot towards the loggia. He comes to a halt underneath. Man on horse: woman on balcony. A chorus of lovely young women can now be glimpsed behind her. He takes off his hat and bows low to the side, his thighs clasping tight to the saddle to balance the move. The reins clink, the horse whinnies slightly.
In response, Lucrezia drops into a deep curtsey, disappearing from view before rising up again. The moment is held. Then he replaces his hat and flicks the reins and his horse joins the others as the procession moves off towards the opening doors of the Vatican palace, where he will pay obeisance to her father.
The crowd howls its approval at a ritual well executed.
She turns back into the room. Her aunt stands, eyes still brimming.
‘I had the sun in my eyes.’ Lucrezia shrugs slightly, her heart still hammering out the drumbeat of excitement. ‘All I could see was a flash of gold on his chest.’
Everybody finds it wonderfully funny.
CHAPTER 11
Amid the days of celebration that follow, the only person who manages to contain his enthusiasm is the indefatigable Master of Ceremonies.
Johannes Burchard orchestrates every element with the same attention to detail that he might give to the Second Coming. With no protocol for such an event – popes do not have daughters, even when they do – he fashions one to fit. The guest list is extensive, mixing family, Church, state and a small invasion of foreign dignitaries, each and every one of whose arrival and placing must be choreographed down to the finest inch of precedent and snobbery.
The new papal apartments have been hastily prepared. Pinturicchio and his gang of apprentices have been banished, the painter moaning fiercely, and tapestries brought in to cover up where his brilliance has been interrupted. The Pope’s gilded throne is carried carefully into the main salon, with a lesser seat put in place in the smaller chamber of mysteries so that he may move easily between ruler of Christendom and doting father. Without the religious frescos that will eventually cover the walls, the most powerful image is that of the Borgia family crest: the rising flame, the double crown, and everywhere the bull, potent and warlike.
Things do not begin well. At the hour of the marriage ceremony Alexander sits magnificent on his throne, surrounded by cardinals, ready to receive his guests, when the doors open on the flock of Lucrezia’s gentlewomen who, reduced to starling status again by the thrill of the moment, fling themselves into the room in such high spirits that they forget to kneel at the Pope’s feet before taking their place in readiness for the bride. A look of pure anguish passes over Burchard’s face, as if that very moment he might be struck dead and his body pulled into hell by a troop of devils. Later, the Pope himself is moved to excuse him of any fault. It doesn’t help: it is not the Pope’s feelings he is worried about, but the insult to the office. It will be his punishment to survive the incident with his shame intact.
For the rest, well, it is a wedding like any other between two great families: an exercise in status, ostentation, sentiment and pleasure. Many of the guests have never entered – nor ever will again – the private apartments of the Pope, and there is much nudging and gawping. When they are not judging their surroundings they are judging each other. With so much outré fashion vying for attention, the Duke of Gandia’s fanfaronade entrance – a chest of jewels masquerading as a suit of clothes – is greeted with remarkable good humour. In contrast, the bridegroom’s necklace speaks of both taste and dignity, and Lucrezia’s palpable purity and vulnerability as she approaches to kneel beside him on the velvet cushions, the little Negress a shimmering black sprite at her heels, plays on everybody’s heartstrings.
It is not her fault if the attention of most of the guests is drawn irresistibly towards an even more dazzling young woman with a cloud of golden hair, who, for the first time ever, is presented in public as the Pope’s companion.
Cesare, in formal ecclesiastical dress (unlike his brother he understands the power of watching rather than being watched), stands to the side as something akin to a queue forms close to Giulia Farnese’s chair. While the diplomats’ pens will no doubt be dipped in poison when it comes to describing the scene, there is no mistaking the approval in their eyes now. Ah, it amazes him how grown men suckle so on the teat of scandal. Still, the more they gossip, the less attention they have for more important things. His own future, for instance. There are plans afoot which will have them falling over themselves soon enough, only when it happens it will be his timing and not theirs.
‘Your Excellency. Welcome back.’ He cannot stop a few of the smarter ambassadors from sniffing around him.
Alessandro Boccacio from the city-state of Ferrara stands beaming at him: face like a fish, nose like a bloodhound, a veteran of the fray but also a man with a seriously leaking diplomatic pouch. ‘Ten papacies would not satisfy this horde of relatives.’ Those had been the very words he had sent to his duke. Cesare has been looking forward to this encounter for a while.
‘How Rome has missed your bull-fighting skills! We all pray your archbishop’s robes won’t stop you from entering the ring again.’
‘Happily, Señor Boccacio, I am so busy with Church matters that killing bulls no longer holds the same attraction.’
‘Perhaps that is because so many of them have been elevated to the skies,’ the ambassador replies, and they laugh together at this clever reference to the bulls on the Borgia coat-of-arms, emblazoned over the ceilings. Under one such set the newlyweds sit in their decorated chairs, surrounded by well-wishers, smiling and talking to everyone but each other.
‘I must say, the Lady Lucrezia, your sister, is radiant.’
‘She most certainly is.’
‘And your brother, Duke of Gandia. Well… he succeeds in dazzling us all.’
‘Yes, he does catch the sun particularly well today.’
‘He will make a fine bridegroom himself. Which lucky woman will that be, we all wonder? I see the Spanish ambassador has a big smile on his face. Of course, he has a lot to celebrate. They say it is a whole new world that Their Majesties’ ships have bumped into. If I was the ambassador for Portugal I would be most worried about that smile.’ The Ferrarese ambassador pauses again. Not that he expects anything now, but he is enjoying the rhythm of his own music. ‘You do not yearn for it at all yourself, Your Excellency?’
‘What? Sailing?’
‘I was thinking more of marriage.’
‘Ah, as you
know, I am betrothed to our Holy Mother Church. She sustains me in all my desires.’
Except those that are dealt with by a certain young courtesan called Fiammetta, a professional hostess who runs an elegant establishment near the Sant’ Angelo Bridge. The silence is long enough for them both to conjure up a pleasurable image of her.
‘Your uncle looks well in his cardinal’s robes.’
‘He does.’ Though in fact Juan Borgia Lanzo, new in the job but old in years, does not look that well at all.
‘We have great hopes that more new blood will find its way into the College. You yourself would make a fine cardinal. Were such a thing to be considered.’
Ah, thinks Cesare, so this is what all this probing is about. Even now no one quite dares to bring it up directly: how his bastard status will disqualify him from a cardinal’s hat.
‘You think so? I think I am too old already. It seems the rush is on to promote ever younger blood. Your own duke’s young son, Ippolito d’Este, has barely celebrated his fifteenth birthday, I hear.’
‘Ah, but he is a young man of exceptional virtue and acumen. You cannot imagine how he yearns to serve the papacy. The Este family are holding their very own celebrations today in Ferrara, such is their love and support for the Pope.’
‘And His Holiness is well aware of it. The heir apparent, Alfonso, brought a whole chest of it when he visited my sister. She says he is a most handsome man.’
‘And he in turn was overwhelmed by her modesty and beauty.’
‘The two of them spoke Italian together, I trust?’ Cesare says casually.
‘I am sorry?’
‘I would not like to think my sister welcomed him in… Spanish.’
‘Spanish? No, no, why…’ he says, evidently flustered.