Blood & Beauty: A Novel of the Borgias

by Sarah Dunant

  Behind the scenes the ladies say to each other, ‘Thank the good Lord for the baby. He will save the duchess’s life.’ But after a while, one or other of them voices the thought that others cannot bear to. ‘What about the next husband? Whoever he is, he will not want to take charge of another man’s child.’

  As the pull towards death subsides, so Lucrezia too must start to think about her future. Which means thinking about her past. Born into the close weave of such a family, she has never had the space – or perhaps the courage – to look at it from the outside. But if she is to survive, she must do so now. Even in the peace of Nepi, the manoeuvrings of Borgia power are obvious. This fortress, all her other estates and towns, everything she owns, has been wrenched from someone else, and the gossip leaks through despite the fact that she is not always listening: like the story of Giacomo Gaetani, dying in sudden agony in the dungeons of Castel Sant’ Angelo barely a few months after he had ‘forfeited’ his lands because his was suddenly the wrong family name. Over the years, how many bodies have been scooped up from the Tiber with weeds in their hair and hands tied behind their backs? When she was younger or busy in love, it had been easier not to dwell on these things, but you would need to be deaf, dumb and blind not to notice how so many of the corpses these days are their enemies’.

  And then there are the friends who are friends no longer. Juan Cervillion, the Neapolitan soldier who negotiated Alfonso’s return to Rome and held baby Rodrigo over the font at his baptism, was murdered in the back streets as soon as he left the Vatican to return to his family in Naples. She had been raw still with the wonder of birth, and had cried for hours when they brought her the news.

  ‘Oh, Rome! Its streets are full of men who like to use their swords rather than their tongues,’ her father had said extravagantly when she had asked.

  Only she knows that is not true. Tongues are swords in Rome. She remembers the guest at the Sforza palace whose casual insult to Juan led to summary execution. Not only insults. There is no safety in love. What had Pedro Calderón ever done but feel affection for her? And Alfonso… Even in her father’s house Alfonso had not been safe. Rome. When she thinks of it now, it makes her shiver: the corridors between Santa Maria in Portico and the Vatican dank with intrigue, the fake bonhomie of courtiers and diplomats, the sneers beneath the smiles. It is everything she mistrusts and fears. There will be a feeding frenzy when she returns. She can already smell the perfumed sweat of her father’s robes, hear the ripples of shocked laughter through closed doors.

  I won’t go back, she thinks. I will stay and make my life here, a widow caring for my son.

  But of course it will never be allowed. So, if it is not to be death or marriage, then it must be the convent.

  ‘The unhappiest of duchesses’ she signs herself in her letters to her father. To Cesare, she does not write at all. It is the first time in her life that she has not been in contact with him.

  At the end of October Duke Valentino, on the way to war, travels north to Nepi with an army behind him, though this time he is careful to leave most of it camped elsewhere.

  If Cesare’s conscience has been giving him any trouble, there has been no time to listen to it. Alfonso had still been nursing his wounds when Cesare had ridden incognito out of Rome to meet the French ambassador and hammer vague promises into hard numbers. King Louis would give him three hundred lancers and two thousand cavalry for this, his new campaign. He renews his contacts with the condottieri and on the streets of Rome there is a sudden influx of Spaniards, tough, brawny men who have heard there is money to be made for the price of their fingerprint on a contract.

  Their loyalty and their fighting qualities are undisputed. All he needs is the wherewithal to pay them. That September sees twelve successful candidates for the Sacred College of Cardinals. Twelve! And while they are not unworthy – Cesare has too much experience of the Church to be so crass – they are only too happy to pay for entry into such an exclusive club. The night after their election they all dine together in his apartments (the Pope has business elsewhere). It is a grand, raucous affair. Their host is 120,000 ducats richer, which according to his administrators – including his old tutor, also a new cardinal – will be enough to finance an army on the road for four or five months. ‘War’, as d’Alegre had put it so succinctly, ‘is such an expensive business.’

  By the time the army marches out of Rome, Cesare has already made one conquest. The thriving little town of Cesena, neighbour to Faenza and Forlì, has offered itself into his hands. It is the wisdom of pragmatism: Venice, having gained a promise of help against the Turks, has withdrawn her support from the bigger cities of the Romagna and the Pope has excommunicated their leaders. The citizens of Cesena know that it is better to give in early peacefully rather than violently late.

  Lucrezia receives only a few days’ notice of her brother’s coming. There is no way she can refuse him. Her ladies, who keep their expressions guarded, are excited. Eight weeks in the country have been pleasant enough and it has been wonderful to see their mistress laugh again, but they are court animals, bred for fashion and flirtation, and it has been a long time since they have enjoyed either.

  Cesare brings a few of his most lively captains with him (Michelotto is not one of them). Young men with feathered hats, and velvet slashes over flashing steel, they cause a flutter of hearts as they ride in. They are off to war and there is nothing they would enjoy more than the admiration of pretty women to help them on their way.

  Even Sancia, who vows that she will never be in the same room as her brother’s murderer, relents. At dinner she finds herself placed between two Spanish captains, who compete tirelessly for her attention. Her notoriety, her beauty and her new radiance take no prisoners, and as she turns from one to the other she begins to remember what it is like not to be in tears. Who can blame her?

  In contrast, Cesare and Lucrezia are like strangers. They greet each other with a polite embrace and he feels her body tight, unyielding against his. She makes sure that they are seated at different parts of the table, and though he looks at her often, she never returns the gaze, though of course she is aware of it. So is everyone else. It is hard not to be aware of Cesare Borgia. Dressed in black (style rather than any statement of mourning) he both exudes and attracts energy, like iron to a lodestone. He appears exuberantly well; no sign of purple flowers or groin ache now. Invincibility is so much his natural state that when the disease is dormant it is impossible for him – or anyone else – to imagine the agonies of it. Nevertheless, when the rest of the party retire to their rooms and the two of them are left alone, it is he who is the more uncomfortable.

  ‘You look well, Lucrezia,’ he says. It is not his intention to begin with a lie, but her self-possession unnerves him: the loving little sister who used to run into his arms, admiration shining out of her eyes, has gone. In her place sits a calm but distant woman who seems to be standing behind herself, watching how she behaves.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says evenly. ‘I am… quieter.’

  ‘Yes. It is exceedingly quiet here.’ He looks towards the window. ‘I am more used to being on the outside of fortresses with the sound of cannon fire in my ears.’

  ‘And if you were outside this fortress,’ she says, because it seems they must talk of something, ‘how long would it take for you to break down its walls?’

  ‘Three… four days. Maybe longer.’ Because of course he has thought about it. ‘Da Sangallo did a good job when he rebuilt them, but that was twenty years ago. Our new guns have better range and the north front is vulnerable.’

  ‘And for those inside? What is it like to be under siege?’

  ‘People say it is like being in a thunderstorm that rains death and never stops. That you cannot hear yourself speak. Or think. It drives men mad.’ He shrugs. ‘Almost as bad as your crying,’ he says lightly.

  She does not smile.

  ‘Well,’ he shrugs again. ‘Perhaps bombardment would be worse.’

&
nbsp; From somewhere in the garden comes the sound of fluttering laughter. No doubt one of her ladies is showing a captain the delights of a country moon; so carefree, the music of courtship. I will never feel that again, she thinks. Then catches herself. Self-pity will get her nowhere. The silence returns. By rights she should be asking about their father: his health, his happiness. There is a rumour that Giulia Farnese is returned to Rome, a widow herself after the roof fell in on her husband in their house in the country. How much crying has she done? she wonders.

  ‘I see I am not yet forgiven.’

  She frowns, as if the question makes no sense. ‘Forgiveness is more God’s business than mine.’

  ‘I don’t care about God,’ he replies swiftly. ‘I only care about you.’

  ‘You must not say things like that, Cesare. It is not right.’

  ‘I can’t help it. I can’t help it. It’s how I feel. I might wish I didn’t, but it would be like asking the sun not to rise.’ He, who spends his life feeling one thing but showing another, is suddenly openly angry. ‘You think I don’t understand what I did to you? You think I don’t know? Ha! I saw you together. I know how happy he made you. But there was no other way. Do you hear me? No. Other. Way. We are too far down the road to turn back. Our future is in the north. Naples is doomed. We must find allies elsewhere or we will be crushed along with it. Your marriage could not have continued. And divorce was impossible. There was no other way.’ He stops, as if it is only now he realises how close to being out of control he is.

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ she says, quietly, because having looked back unblinking she has seen many things that she might have chosen not to see before. ‘What about Jofré? He is a Borgia too. His union with Sancia is not a happy one and there are no children after many years. Why didn’t Father dissolve that marriage and use Jofré as your tool of alliance?’

  ‘Because it would have taken too long and because Jofré is an impotent fool and no one of any importance would have him.’

  How like Father you sound, she thinks. ‘What? And they would have me instead? Me – the illegitimate daughter of a pope, known throughout the land as a whore and now the widow of a man butchered by my own brother?’ Careful, Lucrezia, she thinks. Careful. Do not cry. If you cry now all will be lost.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that. Believe me, sister, there is not a man in Italy now who wouldn’t want to be your husband.’

  ‘And what if I do not want to be anyone’s wife?’ she says coolly. ‘What if I would prefer to be married to God?’

  He smiles. ‘We both know you were not made for a convent.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ To her consternation her voice is trembling. ‘How do you know anything about me, Cesare? You say you love me, but you know nothing about who I am or what I might want. For you, in the end, I am just a piece on a chessboard to be moved or taken when and where it suits your ambitions.’

  ‘That is not true. You are my sister and this is no game: it is our future.’

  She shakes her head sadly.

  ‘If Father was to die, how long would you have lasted with Alfonso then?’ he presses on. ‘The French would have chewed and spat out Naples. And you two with it. And when you say I don’t know you, you are wrong. I know you very well. Maybe better than you know yourself. I know you have a sweet soul and find comfort in God, but I also know that you are too hungry for life for that to be enough for you. You are too clever to be thrown away on another… inconsequential union. I know how much you yearn to build a court of your own, poets and musicians around you. But I tell you, as long as Father keeps you with him in Rome that will never happen. Because in Rome you will indeed always be on the chessboard. Regardless of whom you marry, if your next husband is not powerful enough to take you away, you will always be a Borgia first and someone’s wife second.’

  She sits stock-still, her gaze concentrated on her hands entwined in her lap. Everything he says is true. She has known it even when she couldn’t bear to think about it.

  ‘No, to get what you want – what you deserve – the next marriage must be another kind of union; a legitimate ruler with real power, from a family with roots deep enough to withstand the gales of history. That is the only way forward. And it will give you more life than burying yourself in a convent cell. So tell me now that I don’t know my beloved sister or have her best interests close to my heart.’

  She closes her eyes. Alfonso is cold in the ground barely six weeks, yet if she is to have any say in her future, she must leave him behind and move on.

  ‘You have come to make me an offer,’ she says quietly. ‘Very well, brother. I am listening.’

  He stares at her for a moment. Perhaps he is hoping for something more; some kind of conciliation, a hint of forgiveness. It does not come. It would seem that whatever sweetness there is in her, she is more a Borgia than she might choose to be.

  ‘By the end of the winter, I will have all the main cities of the Romagna in my power. And after I help France take Naples, King Louis will look favourably when we expand further. Perugia, Bologna, maybe even Florence. They are all weakened and vulnerable. Within two years and with a fair wind, we will have a Borgia state in the middle of Italy to rival almost anything around it.’

  ‘What about Venice?’ she says, because even in her grief she remembers how her first husband was always looking over his shoulder to the north. ‘Venice will surely try and stop you.’

  ‘Of course she will. Which is why we need an ally to stand between her territories and our own. A state with its own history and confidence to stand firm between us. We need Ferrara.’

  ‘Ferrara?’ Her voice shows her amazement. ‘You want to marry me into Ferrara!’

  ‘And why not? Duke Ercole d’Este is an old man and his heir, Alfonso, is a widower with no legitimate children. He needs a wife who can give sons to the Este family. A wife who will go on to become duchess of the state, to preside over a great court and a greater city.’

  ‘Ferrara.’ She says it again and laughs, though it is hard to tell whether from excitement or disbelief. ‘You’ll never do it. Este is one of the oldest houses in Italy. They could have anyone they wanted. They will never take me.’

  ‘Oh yes they will, Lucrezia. That I promise you.’

  PART X

  Leaving the Family

  Speak clearly to His Majesty: we will never consent to giving Madonna Lucrezia to Don Alfonso, nor will Don Alfonso ever be induced to take her.

  DUKE ERCOLE D’ESTE, IN A LETTER TO THE FERRARESE AMBASSADOR AT THE COURT OF LOUIS XII, FEBRUARY 1501

  CHAPTER 57

  As winter closes in, the household at Nepi packs up its one hundred chests and heads back to Rome. The Pope has forgiven his daughter and is in love with her all over again. He is also busy negotiating offers for her hand. He has already welcomed a cousin of the French King, as well as an Orsini duke and a Spanish count. Cesare was right: she may be notorious, but with the power of the papacy and an armed brother behind her, Lucrezia Borgia is still an attractive prospect on the marriage market.

  Alexander has no real interest in any of the suitors, but the more who are seen to ask and be refused, the more likely Duke Ercole d’Este will realise how desired the Pope’s daughter is. In such things Alexander plays his hand like the political veteran he is: charming to those who must be charmed and quietly ruthless when they are no longer needed. In November, when the Spanish and the French sign their ‘secret’ treaty divvying up the spoils of Naples in advance of its fall, he makes his wishes known to the French ambassador.

  The response is perfect. ‘I am sure that King Louis will be only too pleased to give any assistance that he can.’

  When the first overtures reach Duke Ercole in Ferrara he does not bother to hide his disdain. The d’Este family was ruling Ferrara when the Borgias were still scraping the earth in Valencia, and nothing the Spanish interlopers have done since then has made them worthy of anything more than contempt. It had been Ercol
e’s diplomats who brought back the rumour of a baby born to Lucrezia nine months after her stay in the convent, a baby whose father might even have been the Pope himself! No, this offered bride is an insult: damaged goods from a parvenu family. Ercole huffs and puffs diplomatic excuses, while sending secret letters to the King of France begging that he find another more suitable bride for his son to save the family from the embarrassment of direct refusal.

  Louis himself, whose natural expression these days is two faced, is torn. He would actually quite enjoy shoving the knife into the Este family – it would pay them back for their support of Ludovico Sforza in Milan, and he knows that without the Pope’s blessing he will never have the crown of Naples. On the other hand, he is not bringing down the houses of Aragon and Sforza only to replace them with Borgias. He tells both sides what they want to hear and waits to see how the wind blows.

  In Rome, Lucrezia’s homecoming has not been easy. In the wake of Cesare’s visit, Nepi’s silence no longer offered balm to the soul, and as the weather grew more inhospitable her return became inevitable. But once back in her palace, there was nothing to cushion her against the pain of memory and the list of lacklustre suitors makes her sick to the stomach. While Alexander accepts her spirited refusals with good grace (such sentiments perfectly echo his own), it is clear that even if she could imagine herself in a convent – and the cells at San Sisto had been chilly even when the weather was hot – he would never, ever countenance such a thing. Once again Cesare is right. Marriage is the only way out.