by Sarah Dunant
‘That the Pope was in despair and dedicated to reform. You are right. And he was. In such despair. And his penance was real. No, I am afraid in this business I must bear the blame. I was the temptress,’ she sighs. ‘I think it must sound strange to hear it, yes? But you were not here, Lucrezia. His grief was terrible. It would have broken your heart to witness it.’
‘Yes indeed, terrible.’ Adriana supplies the chorus. ‘Terrible. There was nothing anyone could do. We feared for his sanity.’
‘Some did, yes. But I knew it was his heart and not his mind,’ Giulia says quietly. ‘At first he would not see me. Imagine that. I sent messengers every day: a token, a few words, my prayers. And then, finally, one afternoon, he came. And though he cried I also made him smile. I don’t think – ah… Ah, oh, feel!’ She grabs Lucrezia’s hand and pulls it under the cover, placing it over the well-concealed rise of her belly. ‘There, there! Do you feel him?’
And she does, the thrust of something hard, like a unripe peach or an apple, sliding up and under her fingers.
‘Oh, he is always so busy! He moves quite differently to Laura. So restless and forceful. Ha!’
‘What? You know it is a boy?’
‘Yes, I do. I can feel it about him. And it would be a fine thing, don’t you think? A boy to help replace the loss of his beloved Juan. That would be a gift such that God might forgive me a little for the act itself.’
‘Oh, I don’t think God would damn you, Giulia. You are a good woman.’
‘That’s not what the scandalmongers would say if they got hold of it. You have not been here, Lucrezia. Since Juan’s murder the city is all Borgia tittle-tattle. You of all people are most lucky to have been in the silence of the convent.’
‘What do you mean? Has something been said about me? What is it?’
‘I wouldn’t bother with it. Gossip is a pauper’s entertainment: the people who pay are those who are slandered.’
‘Not in God’s eyes,’ Adriana jumps in, busying herself with the covers and calling for the servant to add more wood, as the winter wind whistles in around the fabric of the windows. ‘In God’s eyes slander slanders those who produce it. And we will have none of it here.’
If no one will tell her, then she must find out herself. Her fear, of course, is that it is to do with Pedro. If Cesare suspects something (but what? and how?), then might others? She has risked her soul declaring a virginity she no longer possesses. How would it be then if she were damned as a whore for something she has not actually done? It is not long before the news finds her.
‘No! But why? Why would he say such a thing?’
‘I cannot tell you why, mistress.’ Pantisilea has barely had to walk the streets to hear it. ‘Only that he said it more than once, so now everyone is saying it.’
‘I have known her an infinity of times and the Pope has only taken her back for himself.’ How could he be so cruel? She thinks back to the last time she saw him, trembling in front of her, fearful of his own shadow. ‘You must go now, Giovanni.’ Who knows what might have happened if he had stayed? They had not been happy together, certainly, but she had cared for him as best she could. God knows, without her intercession he might well have found himself dead in a ditch somewhere with the imprint of Michelotto’s hands around his neck.
Her father wants her for himself. Is that what people believe of her now? When she welcomes ambassadors – as she will again – will it be in their minds when they kiss her hand or make small talk about the world? That same afternoon when she sees the agent of the Duke of Gravina, who is sniffing around for her hand in marriage, there are moments when she cannot help but blush at what he may be thinking. Yet there is nothing in his face but kindness, and what feels like a genuine appreciation of her courtesy and good humour. That night she spends longer at her mirror: if it was true, then surely it would show on a woman’s face. Of course such things happen. The world is full of stories. Everyone knows that in Rimini old Sigismundo Malatesta, whose name is still a byword for evil, kept both his daughter and his son for his own enjoyment. She thinks of her father’s bear-like embrace, the pungent smell of his body inside his clothes, the slap of his fond kisses. But that is all they are – fond kisses from a fond father. How dare anyone think otherwise? Then she thinks of Cesare’s fierce love and the probe of his tongue. What? Is there perhaps something in her family that loves differently from others? Is it a Spanish way?
‘Slander slanders those who produce it.’ She hears Adriana’s voice in her ear. Fine words. But she and Giulia are still concerned enough to be concealing a belly full of secrets. The fact is, it is not what you do or don’t do, but how convincingly you can be accused of it.
Over the next few weeks she keeps to the house. There is little opportunity for diversions anyway as the winter is abnormally foul. After days of torrential rain the banks of the Tiber break just before dawn, sending a giant wave of water through the town, taking the contents of cellars and stables with it, so that days later horses are found wandering miles from home and farmers wake up to full barrels of wine washed up on to their farmland. And downriver near the city gates a body is found with two heads and five legs. Or that is what they say around town, for no one who repeats the story has actually seen it, though everyone knows someone who knows someone who has. The wonder and horror of nature. She and Pedro had talked about such things in their stories. Pedro. It has been almost two months and still she has heard nothing. But when she sends for Pantisilea to find some news of his whereabouts, the young woman shakes her head.
‘I don’t think that is a wise thing to do, madam.’
‘What do you mean?’
She shrugs. ‘Just that – well…’
‘Well what? Is there something you haven’t told me? Because—’
‘It is not my fault, madam. I never said a word to anyone, I swear it on my mother’s grave.’
‘You may say that, but how can I know if I believe you unless you tell me?’ she says fiercely. ‘What have you heard?’
‘That he has been put in prison because of things they say he did with you.’
‘Things? What things?’
‘I don’t know.’ The girl gives a hopeless shrug. ‘People say that Lady Adriana has started looking for midwives. However hard you try, you can’t keep that kind of thing secret for long.’
Cesare and her father are in conference together in the papal throne room when she demands that Burchard announce her. The door is barely closed behind him before she speaks.
‘Whatever you have heard about Pedro Calderón and myself is slander and calumny. He was a good friend to me when I was in need and has done nothing that deserves prison. I want you to release him.’ She realises she is trembling and tries to still herself.
‘I told you she would be upset,’ the Pope says mildly.
Cesare, lounging close to his father in the leather-backed chair that he has made his own, says nothing at all.
‘Come, come, my dear. These are not things that should concern you.’
‘Not concern me? A man is in prison because of me, Father.’
‘My child, it is more complex than you know. This is a most delicate time for the family. With God and fortune on our side, this marriage of yours to Naples will be the stepping-stone to much greater things for your brother. However, King Federico is a man of strict beliefs and the character of his new daughter-in-law is important. I am sure your dealings with Pedro Calderón were innocent enough – but somehow or other petty gossip has trickled out and to prevent it going further your brother thought it would be circumspect to remove him from the scene.’
‘Really! If we’re talking gossip, I’m surprised anyone thought it was worth noting, given that most of Rome seems to think I am a young woman who is best loved by her father.’
Alexander scowls and swats the words away like a fat fly. ‘Oh, no one believes that. It is simply the poisonous dribblings of an idiot.’
‘And the rumour of a pregnancy in
our palace?’ she says, quietly.
‘Ah, yes; it seems we are hostage to timing there. It had been our hope to keep the secret at least until sometime after the birth. It is unfortunate that such gossip has leaked out so soon after your return to Rome.’
‘In which case by arresting Pedro Calderón, you will make it seem that the slander against me is true.’
‘If we don’t take him off the streets, someone else will,’ Cesare says quietly, watching her all the time. ‘And then who knows what stories he might tell about what the two of you have been doing together?’
She turns, staring directly at him. Out of Church robes he is the consummate man about town: his velvet doublet sculpted to show off his chest, the purple hose over his legs as fine as another layer of skin. All he needs are more jewels sewn into the cloth and he will be flaunting it as richly as Juan. She thinks back to the abbess with her shift and sandals. ‘I have told you already, brother,’ she says. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’
‘You also told the judges that your husband had never touched you.’
‘No! No.’ And suddenly the injustice of it all is too great. ‘Don’t listen to him, Father. I was unhappy and alone and in distress. Pedro Calderón was a courtier towards me. Kinder and gentler and more honourable than any that I have come across in a court yet. Yes, I enjoyed his company. What is wrong with that?’
‘Everything.’ Cesare will not let it lie. ‘You were in a convent to keep you pure while your arsehole husband went round slandering you to anyone who would listen. Your defence was to be seen to be without stain.’
Without stain! How many women have you bedded in the last six months? she thinks. She almost wants to say the words out loud, but there is no point. Every woman who walks through the world knows there are two roads: a wide, triumphal route for the men, and a second mean little alley for women. Freedom is so much men’s due that even to draw attention to it is to make them angry.
‘Cesare, Cesare…’ Her father’s voice is gentle. ‘I know how much you care for your sister. But she has been through a great deal and I—’
‘I love her more than anything in the world, Father,’ he says brusquely. ‘As she well knows.’ It seems he is enough the adviser now that he can interrupt both his father and the Pope. ‘But that is not an excuse for her offering herself up to some Spanish stable boy.’
And now it is there in his voice for all to hear. Oh sweet Mother of God, he is jealous, Lucrezia thinks. My brother is jealous. This is what this is about. Oh, but I should have realised! She glances towards her father. But he seems oblivious of the confession that his eldest son has just let slip.
‘Ah, Cesare, listen to you,’ she says lightly over the pounding pulse in her ears. ‘You sound almost as rabid as the gossipmongers you condemn! Better you should believe your own sister than the rabble, for why would she, who loves you above all things, lie? That “stable boy” is a man that you yourself picked as a safe courier and I tell you, he respects and admires you more than life itself. Whatever you seem to think he has done.’
Now she turns away from him to Alexander himself. ‘To defeat this scandalous suggestion, surely it would be helpful for me to be seen by the world more. Perhaps a dinner with the Neapolitan ambassadors? So they can be reassured I am without child. Otherwise when the baby is born and Calderón is still in prison, everyone will be encouraged to think it is mine.’
‘Yes, yes, indeed, it is already in our minds. Don’t worry. As for the baby, there may be a flurry of gossip, but it will die down as soon as there is nothing to stoke the flames. I will own paternity when the moment is right. Let us only get through this marriage and the business with your brother.’
‘What business is that?’
There is a small silence. The two men look almost shifty.
‘I think if I am family enough to risk blame for a child that is not mine, I might have the right to ask about my brother’s future.’
The Pope laughs out loud. Given that women’s path is narrow and mean, she knows it is a risk being so forward, but Alexander has always liked his women to speak their mind. As long as they love him.
‘When the time is right, Cesare will give up the purple. He will leave the Church to free him for marriage.’
‘Ah!’ She stares at her brother. And now he smiles. It has something close to coyness in it. It does not suit him.
‘Can it be done?’
‘With God’s will and a little politics, yes,’ Alexander says. ‘Though once again you are joined in family confidence here. It would not do for it to get out.’
‘And this is the union that will take Naples?’
‘The hopes are high, yes.’
‘Well, then we shall be related in yet another way. How close can we be, brother?’ And she comes up to him and kisses him on both cheeks. It is hard even for her to know how much she is pleased and how much play-acting, such is the nervous exhilaration in her. ‘I must say you have always looked more the bridegroom than the cardinal.’
He rises and pulls her to him. She feels the hardness of the body underneath the velvet. The Pope beams. It is so painful for there to be discord when there can be happiness! The embrace continues, then, gently, she releases herself.
‘I shall look forward to my new sister-in-law,’ she says gaily, as if they are already reconciled, with or without his agreement. ‘And, since the matter is now resolved,’ she adds lightly, ‘when it has all taken place, perhaps you will let Pedro Calderón go free?’
The Pope glances at Cesare.
‘I am your loving and loyal daughter, Father,’ she says standing her ground. ‘I ask humbly that you do this for me.’
Cesare keeps his eyes on a spot on the floor near his father’s throne.
Alexander’s voice is soothing, always wanting to please: ‘I promise you that if it can be done, it will,’ he says. And though she is pleased to hear it, when she recalls the moment later she finds herself chilled by the precision of the words.
The baby comes in the middle of March, a bonny boy, arms and legs waving like mad little windmills until they are strapped fast into swaddling clothes, at which point he yells his dissatisfaction to all around. Adriana bustles around giving orders while Giulia lies as still as she can to heal the tears he inflicted as he fought his ebullient way out. Within a few days he has developed an appetite to challenge even the wettest of wet-nurses, and with so much toing and froing, it is not long before a few nosy ambassadors are confident enough to send birth notices out to their gossip-hungry employers. A new Borgia baby. A boy, no less.
Just as the Pope predicted, the infant Romanus, as he is instantly referred to, starts a frenzied guessing game. A healthy baby means one brought close to term. Conception mid-June then. Or, at the latest, July. The smartest money is on the Pope and Giulia, though there is the issue of when he might have found the time to stop crying. Cesare, meanwhile, must have sired a dozen up until now, though if that is the case, why bother to give a good home to this one? Which leaves Lucrezia again. Lucrezia, the virgin whore whose husband had known her an infinity of times, but certainly not on this occasion. Lucrezia, who has been wearing her dresses high, as is the fashion, so that the cloth flows generously as she walks. June/July. Before or after the convent? When the abbess hears, she delivers a richer sermon than any priest on the power of silence and the devil’s work through gossip, but it comes a little late. The name of Pedro Calderón, faithful retainer to the Pope and his son, is already known. But, whatever he did or didn’t do, no one will be able to ask him about it.
It is not in the Pope’s nature to refuse his daughter anything. Nor to be vindictive for its own sake. But her passionate plea had come too late for further discussion. What some might call fate, others would call timing. The day after her frantic visit to her father, Johannes Burchard, neat and tidy in all things relating to papal matters, sits down at his diary and composes his entry for February 14, 1498.
The servant Pedro Calderón, who las
t Thursday fell – not of his own will – into the Tiber, was fished up today. Concerning which affair there are rumours running through Rome.
When Lucrezia finally hears the news, she rolls her sorrow up into a small tight ball and swallows it down deep inside her. She is eighteen years old and the future will roll out whether she wants it or not.
PART VII
Throwing off the Purple
Iacta est Alea
The Die is Cast
INSCRIPTION ON A SWORD MADE FOR CESARE BORGIA, SUMMER 1498
CHAPTER 36
April 1498: a gentle spring day in the royal hamlet of Amboise in France and runty King Charles VIII with his good queen Anne of Brittany set out to visit an extension to his chateau built by a Neapolitan architect whose work had so impressed him that he had brought him back as war booty. The design is an ambitious one and everyone is excited to see the King’s reaction.
Perhaps it is the excess of anticipation – for the King is very eager. Perhaps it is carelessness, or perhaps (God forbid) the man is not up to the job and has got the dimensions wrong. Whatever the fault, His Majesty rushes in through a new door, stumbles on a loose floorboard and cracks his head on the wooden lintel. The thwack is heard by all around him and though he laughs after he groans, he is taken to bed seeing stars. One can only hope it is a good augury and when he wakes up he is indeed in heaven.
It is upsetting that such a silly death should befall the conqueror of half of Italy. Upsetting particularly for the house of Valois, since this sickly man has already presided over the deaths of his only four children in infancy. The crown of France now moves towards the closest living relative, Louis, Duke of Orléans. But those who stand to gain most from this cruel trick of fate do not have a French bone in their bodies. When the news reaches Alexander in Rome, his smile is as wide as the mouth of the Tiber. At some point all good Christian monarchs need something from their Pope, and though Louis may now have a crown, to keep his country intact he also needs help with a marital problem. The timing could not be better.